


School For Scandal

by rubberbird



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Bullying, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 222,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbird/pseuds/rubberbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lusts from afar. John tries to fool himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say a huge thank you for all of the kind feedback and support I've received over the years for this story. I could never have expected such an amazing response when I started writing it about seven years ago. Looking back on the story now, it's clear it needs ruthless proofreading and rewriting, but that's a task I doubt I'll ever be up to. I hope you enjoy it the way it is nonetheless. I've left the Sherlock fandom behind now, but the kind people I met through writing this definitely represent my best memories of it.

Typically, just five minutes into the new school year Sherlock found himself already on his way up to the administration office to untangle yet another of their blunders. Redverse School for Boys prided itself on being an "elite" school, but Sherlock begged to differ. He saw nothing particularly elite about the inept teachers, the intolerable and boorish students, the textbooks which were some eight years out-of-date and the library which had a pitifully meagre selection of books on forensic science.

He rang the bell at the admin desk, unsurprised to find it unmanned. As usual. The receptionist always seemed to take her sweet time in responding.

"Just one moment, dear!" she sang from behind the screen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He glowered at the throng of freshly acquired grade eight students lurking by the doors. They were gaping at him and seemed to be entertaining some vain hope that one of them would pluck up the courage to ask him where the Orientation Day meeting was being held. He hoped that his expression made it quite clear that he had no intention of wasting precious oxygen by compensating for their inability to read a map.

Most of them were half-obscured under the mass of the monstrous school issued backpacks, which successfully crippled or mentally scarred most of the newcomers before they reached grade nine. It usually took the newcomers a few weeks to realise that carrying the entire volume of their texbooks in their bags was, at best, a bad idea.

The receptionist finally appeared, a pile of yellowing files pressed to the chest of her gaudy floral dress. "How can I hel-"

Her smile vanished when she saw him. Sherlock had become used to having that effect on people a long time ago.

"Mr. Holmes," she said flatly. "What a surprise."

She dropped into a seat behind the desk, dropping the files with a soft  _flump_  in front of her.

"Why have I been roomed with Marty Hester?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring her affectedly tired expression. "I specifically stated that I cannot share lodgings."

"No, this is how things are done here," the receptionist replied testily. "We can't pander to the every demand of every student, Mr. Holmes."

"I have a severe skin disorder which could seriously affect anyone who lives in close quarters with me," Sherlock said, prodding a finger into the centre of the desk in front of her face. "I will not be kept accountable for any court proceedings which arise as a result of  _your_  negligence."

"If you have a problem with your roommate, you can talk to your grade coordinator," she said, with a shrug, "but I doubt whether-"

"Look," Sherlock said coldly, "I know just as well as you do that Redverse values its top students _very_  highly. I think that Principal Harvey would be very displeased if he discovered that you were denying its top student this one very, very  _small_  request."

The receptionist froze in the motion of booting up her computer and finally looked up at him, her eyes filled with dislike. "Fine, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly. "I will have you moved to another room... _again_. Now can you let me get back to my work?"

Sherlock picked up his bag. "Thank you," he said shortly, turning on his heel.

"Maybe if you made an effort with people for once, you wouldn't have to keep changing rooms," she said loudly after him.

A few titters went around the grade eight students, but Sherlock didn't look back. He went straight to his room to pack up his things before Hester appeared.

...

John was roomed with Billy Pip this year. He was also on the school's football team. The school tended to room football players together, for whatever reason. Billy was large and blonde with a squashed nose and a square jaw. He was easily the tallest boy on the team, towering over all the others at about six foot. John couldn't help thinking that he wouldn't want to see Billy running down a pitch towards  _him_ , as he was roughly the girth of a small steam train.

John was easily the shortest on the team at a depressing five foot six. He was hoping that his body was going to compensate by granting him a late teenage growth spurt. Though he doubted it, by the look of his father.

"Hey, Johnny boy."

John turned to find Billy dragging his massive, battered duffel bag through the door. Their school uniform was comprised of grey socks, grey trousers and a grey jumper emblazoned with the school's logo. It was all trimmed with yellow and looked particularly unpleasant when stretched across Billy's liberal figure.

"Hey," John said, pausing in the middle of unpacking his neatly folded, carefully ironed school shirts. "Have a good summer?"

"Yeah," Billy said, collapsing onto his bed with the effect of a mild earthquake. "It was alright. Had to spend most of it at my dad's but can't complain." He grinned over at John. "We've got it in the bag this year though, aye? It's as good as ours."

"It always is," John replied dryly. He really didn't want to start talking about football this early into the school year.

Billy laughed his loud, guffawing laugh. "Yeah, those fuckers at St. Anthony's won't know what hit them," he grunted, and gave a wet belch. "Fags."

"Yeah," John said stiffly.

"Boys," the grade coordinator's face appeared at the door. "Orientation meeting in five minutes. Don't be late."

"Yes, Mr. Blake," John said, knowing that Billy wouldn't respond.

He disappeared and they heard him repeat his message to the boys in the next room.

"Fucking paedophile," Billy grunted. "Can't wait until this fucking year is over. One more year and we can finally get out of this shit hole."

John had to admit that he agreed wholeheartedly with that last statement.

Students were already drifting into the assembly hall when they arrived. There weren't many students at Redverse, maybe 500 or so in total and grade twelve was the smallest with only 82. John didn't mind the small classes, though it meant that things travelled around very quickly.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, freak!"

John jerked around just in time to see Billy slam his bag into the slender shoulder of Sherlock Holmes, his arms full of books. John winced as Holmes slammed into the cement, his bag flying off his shoulder.

Billy gave a grunt of laughter, glancing around at the sneering onlookers. He gave Sherlock's bag a nudge with his foot and walked into the hall, winking at John as he passed him.

John stared at the fallen boy, his stomach churning. Every fibre in his body was telling him to help Sherlock up, but he knew he wouldn't. He forced himself to turn and walk inside, leaving Holmes to pick himself up.

John felt a pang of guilt as he took his seat with the other footballers.

There were three sorts of boys at Redverse. There were the footballers. Working class boys from hard-working families who had got in purely on their sporting talent, there were the artistically or musically inclined boys who had gotten in on Arts Scholarships, and then there were the rich boys who had got in because daddy had connections with the school governors and a house in Mayfair. If you didn't fit into one of those three categories, you didn't belong at Redverse.

Sherlock Holmes had no category. Little was known about him, just that he was intelligent to the point of being threatening, that he noticed things that people just shouldn't notice, he knew things that people just shouldn't know. He was an outcast, a freak and the other boys made his life a living hell.

Holmes didn't seem to care. He continued to look at everyone around him as though he was looking right through them. That's certainly how John felt when Sherlock looked at him.

He passed John on his way down the stairs and glanced at him coolly over his shoulder, as though he were silently deriding him for being such a pathetic coward. John felt another sickly, guilty pang in his stomach. The tall, slim boy took a seat down the front where no one would disturb him.

Moments later, Principal Harvey appeared from the right wing of the stage. He walked primly across to the pulpit in the centre, clutching a plastic file in one hand and an extravagant gold pen in the other. He was a man of markedly old-fashioned habits. He wore a suit every day, kept a well-trimmed, comb-shaped moustache and always referred to the students as "boy" or "you, there" rather than ever bothering to learn their names. He seemed to linger from a past generation where the less contact made with the students the better.

He glanced up at them, waiting for silence to fall. He never raised his voice over them. He would just stand there, watching them in a quiet, beady manner until they eventually fell silent.

John watched him as his eyes swept the room, pausing on this boy or that and occasionally knitting his eyebrows when he noticed that a particular student was missing. A lot of the boys disappeared over the years, choosing to leave school to work a trade or to transfer schools or just because they couldn't take another moment of it.

The chatter gradually died down to a very slight murmur.

"Good morning, students," Harvey said finally, placing the file and pen carefully in front of him. "Welcome back to Redverse. I trust you all had a relaxing summer."

There was the usual chorus of 'yes, sir'.

He paused, smoothing his moustache in a considering manner. "As you well know, this year is the most important of your schooling. It is your final year, the year in which you will choose the path you will walk for the rest of your lives. Your teachers, your mentors and advisors will ensure that they help you in every way possible to prepare-"

There was a short, dubious laugh. Everyone jerked slightly in their seats, staring around to see who had dared to make the impertinent noise. John knew who had made it. He stared at the back of Sherlock's dark head.

"Mr. Holmes," Harvey said, frowning as he looked at him. "Do you have a comment to make?"

It was designed to embarrass him into silence but Sherlock Holmes was not a boy easily embarrassed.

"You say that we will be given everything needed to achieve excellent grades," he replied calmly, "but what about life outside Redverse' idyllic cloisters?"

"Mr. Holmes, if you have a question I suggest you remain afterwards to discuss it," Harvey said hurriedly, clearing his throat. "As I was-"

"I mean you teach us how to dissect frogs and how to apply Marxist literary criticism to Shakespeare, but you don't bother filling us in on the most important struggles of our age. Global warming, deforestation, rebel uprisings in the Middle East," Sherlock went on, as though he hadn't spoken. "You talk about the physical implications of STDs, but you never mention the social implications-"

"Hey! We don't all have AIDS like you, Holmes!" came a shout from the back, followed by a burst of gleeful laughter.

"That's enough!" snapped Harvey, his usually pasty face going faintly red. "Holmes, if you have something to say, wait until the appropriate time."

He glanced down at the papers in front of him, seeming to have been completely derailed by Sherlock's unexpected interruption.

John looked down at his lap. His palms were sweaty, his heart was pounding. He exhaled heavily, realising he seemed to have stopped breathing while Holmes had been speaking.

The rest of Harvey's introductory speech passed without incident but John could no longer concentrate and barely heard a word of it.

...

Sherlock hurried down the hallway towards his own room, ignoring the glances of the other boys and the sniggers as he passed. He was used to it, there was nothing they could say or do that he hadn't already experienced a hundred times over. It no longer hurt. If it ever had. He couldn't really remember ever feeling emotional pain.

He slammed the door behind him and rested against it, staring up at the ceiling and finally allowing himself to breathe. It was times like these that his solitude was even more important to him.

He was far too used to incidents like the one in the assembly hall to be offended or embarrassed. That wasn't it. It was John Watson again. John bloody Watson. He didn't know what came over him every time he was anywhere near him. It was like an illness. And the closer he got to John the worse it got.

There was something about him. He never joined in with the other boys' abuse. He didn't exactly try and stop it either, but Sherlock would look at him and see how his facial features tautened with unspoken disapproval and he knew that he didn't feel the way the other boys did about Sherlock. He was different. There was a softness and depth to him that the other footballers didn't have, that none of the boys at Redverse had. Those blue eyes, that smile  _did_  something to Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't remember ever having 'crushes'. He had realised fairly early on that he liked boys and it hadn't particularly surprised or upset him. These days, he didn't really find it particularly important whether he abstained from sex with women or he abstained from sex with men. He never remembered physically  _yearning_  for someone else. "Attraction" seemed a laughably mild label for what Sherlock felt for John.

All the problems had started when John had come to the school the year before to play football. Sherlock's attraction had begun subtly, barely noticeable. A glance here, a thought there, an increasing appreciation of how he looked in his football uniform. And an even stronger appreciation of how he looked out of it.

Not that Sherlock had  _spied_ ; it had been a fluke. He had walked into the toilets when John had been changing out of his uniform. For a moment Sherlock thought his limbs had forgotten how to function and he was going to go rigid where he was. Underneath the bulk of his football or school uniform, John's body was toned and firm and slim.

His only garment, a well-kept pair of boxer-briefs, clung to every line of his thighs and pelvis and made what was between his legs more than obvious. Sherlock might as well have walked in on him naked.

John had looked at him and smiled.  _Smiled._  It had almost been too much. Sherlock had hastily used the urinal and got the hell out of there, his cheeks burning furiously and rapidly losing control of his lower-half.

From that day onwards John's body had haunted his mind and his presence had haunted his life. He was always around, smiling and laughing and being kind to everyone like some sort of council worker. Sherlock had never felt like this. And he hoped he never would again.

He went to his bed, dropping his bag and books onto the carpet and pulling his school jumper over his head. He flung it across to his chair, where all of his other clothes tended to stay until he could be bothered to take them to be washed, which could be a week or a month, depending on his mood.

He lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, his mind brimming with John. Absently, he slid a hand down his stomach to the bulge between his legs. Through the soft material of his school trousers it was very obvious. He stroked it gently, rocking his hips a little against his hand and fighting the urge to wank off. He couldn't. Not again. He had to learn to control these emotions, these sensations.

He closed his eyes with a sigh. Saying that didn't stop him from getting himself off in the shower, or spending every torturous waking moment watching John from a distance and picturing him in the most obscene of circumstances.

He slid his hand into the band of his trousers, pressing the other hand to his mouth to stifle the strangled moan which was forced from his mouth. He rubbed his hand up and down himself, spreading his legs and cringing at how wet he was already.

If only he could do this to John.

He tilted his head back against the pillows with a gasp, grasping himself tightly and beginning to rub in violent spurts, hardly able to contain his breathing. He arched his back, his breaths shuddering out like an old car's engine.

"Fu-uck..." he moaned, bucking his hips weakly as he lost control.

He lay limp against the bed, not removing his hand from his trousers. He stared blankly at the ceiling, listening to the laughing and voices from the surrounding rooms, the thumping footsteps and slamming doors.

He sighed and turned onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow.

End of Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, captain," Marty drawled, as John fell into the seat beside him. "You were almost late there. Couldn't have that taint on Redverse's golden boy, could we?"

John glanced at the clock. There was still three minutes to go until the bell, but he had cut it pretty close for his first day back. A letter from his father had arrived. He hadn't expected one so soon. Letters from home always seemed to make him late.

"Gee, Marty. I'm so touched you care," he quipped.

Marty slapped his shoulder with a snigger. "So did you have a good summer, kickstand?"

Marty Hester was one of the best players on the Redverse football team. And a complete and utter wanker. Even John could admit that, and he liked him. He was very good-looking and was clearly aware of it, and had all the advantages of height that John didn't.

"As good as a summer can be when you're stuck in Southampton," John said drily. "What about you?"

Marty flashed him a smug sideways glance. "Oh, you know," he said. "Got so much pussy I can hardly think str-"

He broke off, his eyes swivelling sharply towards the door. John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock Holmes had appeared, with what looked like half the library in his bag.

One the other side of Marty, Billy gave a loud, affected cough. " _Faggot._ "

There were sniggers. A classroom of eyes followed the slender figure as he took his usual seat in the front row. John stared at him. He wished he knew his secret for maintaining such perfect indifference in the face of so much hostility.

"Fuck, I hate that kid," growled Marty, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. "You can't speak without him making some smart arse comment. He was such a fucking douche in history last year." He adopted an exaggeratedly plummy accent that sounded nothing like Sherlock. " _Clearly Marty Hester has been wanking off to dirty magazines because the fourth button of his shirt is undone, he has a heightened colour to his cheeks and the fly of his trousers is partly undone."_ He rolled his eyes. "Tosser."

Billy guffawed. John forced a smile. "Yeah, kinda weird."

"Weird? It's fucking messed up," Marty growled, stabbing a hole in the varnished surface of his desk with a ballpoint pen. "You know he probably spies on us or something. When we're wanking off or in the shower. He's such a fucking shirt-lifter."

John's body temperature rose uncomfortably where he sat. He averted his eyes and hoped desperately that he hadn't gone red. Luckily, Billy's and Marty's attention was still firmly on Sherlock.

John ventured to glance over at him. He was already buried in a book, his head down and his shoulders hunched, as though he was trying to turn in on himself and away from his classmates. John couldn't blame him.

"Morning, students," their home class teacher Mr. Hurst burst through the door, a mug of tea balancing hazardously on an armful of folders. He slammed it down onto the desk and pushed his longish, greasy hair back."Morning, morning, morning. Yes, I know. It's exciting. We're back at school."

Mr. Hurst was about twenty-eight and had the cynical, sharp-tongued personality of a newly graduated university student. It was a mystery to John how he had ended up in the bleak confines of Redverse School for Boys. He looked like he belonged in an art college somewhere.

"Shut up!" he bawled, when the boys continued to talk as loudly as ever.

They all turned to peer sheepishly at him. "Sorry, sir-"

"Yeah, yeah. Well, you will be," he muttered, sitting at his desk and flipping open the blue roll folder.

There were a few titters. The boys seemed to tolerate Hurst better than many of the other teachers.

"Alright... let's start off the year wiiith..." he ran his pen down the page. "Announcements, shall we? First up... please remember that the third floor toilets in B block are out of order and will be thus for another week. And if that wasn't fascinating enough, the cafeteria now sells soy milk  _and_  skim milk."

John laughed in spite of himself. He turned to see whether Sherlock was laughing, but he was watching Hurst with a calculating and markedly unamused expression. John sometimes wondered if he was able to show any shred of emotion at all.

"Alright," Hurst snapped the file shut and tugged out a slip of paper from underneath it. "Let's see who I'm saddled with this year... Thomas Adler?"

John sunk lower in his chair and felt his eyes almost unconsciously drift towards the window. The usual chorus of "heres" and "yeahs" began their familiar rhythm. Being a 'w' meant that John had become used to being the grand finale.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Hurst's voice contained an almost audible wince. The teachers couldn't have missed Sherlock's torment, but they chose to ignore it. They probably didn't blame the boys for being at odds with Sherlock. He didn't exactly endear himself to people.

"Present," Sherlock replied, now firmly engaged in his book again.

" _Present_ ," Marty mimicked.

As usual, the words "and lastly, John Watson" was everybody's cue that they could go. Marty and Billy started to move towards the door before Hurst had even dismissed them.

"Alright, you can go," Hurst said, casting a glance around them in a partly amused, partly exasperated fashion.

Sherlock slid his book into his bag. He paused at Hurst's desk on his way to the door. "Sir, you still have the price tag on that shirt."

And with that, he disappeared.

John watched Hurst rip the tag off grumbling and stuff it in his pocket.

"Coming, golden boy?" Marty called impatiently from the door.

John hurriedly grabbed his bag and went after them.

\--

He was eating lunch at his usual table with Marty, Billy and another footballer Ben Greer when the secretary appeared. As the only woman in a school of hormone-crazed boys she often attracted a lot of attention. She was a short, brassy blonde woman who wore an odd shade of blue eye-shadow and vaguely garish floral dresses.

She smiled toothily at the boys. Marty leered at her.

"Hey boys," she said in a voice that made John's stomach turn. She fixed her eyes on him. "Phone call for you, honey."

John didn't move. "Phone call?" he said blankly.

"You're John Watson, right?" she said, arching a thin eyebrow.

"Yeah," he said, standing and dropping his half-eaten tuna sandwich onto his tray.

"It's probably his girlfriend," Ben quipped with a grin. "I've heard she's a real babe. Probably couldn't face all those long months without him. Needs a bit of phone action to sustain her."

Marty sniggered. "Yeah, mate. Don't be stingy with the details. I wanna hear all about how she's all wet for you-"

"Don't be such a cunt," John snapped, ramming his bag into Marty's shoulder as he passed him.

"Ouch!" Marty burst out. "It was a joke, you tosser!"

"Greedy prick! At least let us see a nude photo or something!" Ben yelled after him.

John rolled his eyes and followed the receptionist down the hall and across the courtyard to the administration office. The phone was sitting off the hook on top of the desk.

John grabbed it and put it to his ear. "Hello?"

"John! It's me."

John's heart plummeted. "Dad?"

"Yeah, mate. I just wanted to make sure you got the letter."

He sounded hurried, like he was calling from the phone in his office at work. John couldn't believe he was so cheap he wasn't even going to risk adding a few pounds to their phone bill to call him.

"Yeah, dad. I got it," he replied, checking his watch. "Look, I have to go to class in a minute."

"I know, I know," his dad said hastily. "I just wanted to make sure... you know... that you know your mother and I are... Well, we're counting on you, son. This could be a big start of something, Johnny. If you get spotted by a talent scout-"

"That's a pretty big "if", Dad," John said in a low voice.

"Look, John," his father's voice was stern now. "There's always time to get a degree, go to uni when you're older but you're not always going to be young and fit. Keep your head in the game and you could go places!"

"Yeah," John said bluntly. "I know. I have to go, Dad. The bell's about to go."

He didn't wait for his dad to reply. He hung up and pushed the phone back towards the receptionist.

"Thanks," he said. "Look, in future. Can you tell my dad I'm in class if he calls?"

"Sure thing, sweetie," she replied, eyeing him questioningly.

He left her, but didn't go back to the cafeteria. There was no way he was going back to lunch now. He couldn't face his friends' stupid questions. He was so angry he had to stop and compose himself by the drinking fountains.

"Who the fuck does he think he is?" he growled, staring down into the grimy basin of the bubbler. "Fucking calling me at school. Jesus."

He jerked in surprise as he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Sherlock Holmes's unmistakeably lithe figure passing along the footpath towards C block where they had English next. John watched him until he was out of sight, wondering if he had heard his outburst.

He waited until he was certain that Sherlock was well and truly gone and then picked up his bag and followed him.

He barged through the doors of C block and straight into Sherlock who was making his way back out with an armful of textbooks. He let out a surprised cry and stumbled backwards, dropping all of them into a pile.

"Watch where you're going!" he snapped, not looking up as he scurried to retrieve them.

"I'm sorry," John said, hurrying to help him. Sherlock went visibly rigid and slowly looked up at him. He didn't seem to have realised who had ploughed into him. His stern slate coloured eyes studied John's face.

John flushed and held out a book. "Here."

Sherlock jerked slightly and snatched it back without comment. He shoved the books into his bag and straightened with a small cough. John stood up as well, staring at Sherlock's face with a mixture of exasperation and perplexity. The boy confused him no end.

The sharp, pale lines of his face were almost impish at this close proximity. He had an arch, shrewd look about him.

"What are you staring at?" Sherlock barked, taking a step back.

John coloured. "Uh nothing," he stammered. He probably should have insulted him or something, but he couldn't bring himself to. "Sorry."

John hurriedly pushed past him. He didn't look back, though he had the distinct feeling that Sherlock was watching him. He turned the corner and slumped against the wall with a sigh. Sherlock had every right to be suspicious. Not a single boy in the whole of Redverse had ever extended their hand in friendship to him. If John did, he'd probably think it was some sort of trick.

John slid down the wall and rested his head in his hands.

"Watson?"

He jerked upright. "Sorry?"

It was Hurst. He raised his eyebrows at him. "Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you," he said archly, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other. He tilted his head slightly, seeming almost to be sizing John up. "Could I have a word with you?"

John stared. "Yeah, okay."

He followed him into his classroom across the hall. Hurst had them for English, as well as home class. He seemed to have read every book ever written and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of dystopian fiction, especially George Orwell.

He sat behind his desk and gestured for John to sit. "I just wanted to talk to you about an assignment we've got coming up."

"Oh, right," John said hurriedly, dropping into a seat in the front row. "I know my grades were ordinary last year, but I do really want to do better in English and I think that-"

Hurst waved a hand dismissively. "That's fine. I know football takes up a lot of your time. I'm sure you'll balance all of your responsibilities. That's not a problem."

"Oh, yeah," John said, deflating slightly.

Hurst was silent for a minute. He pushed his thin spectacles up his nose, which immediately slid back down again. "Look," he said finally, "I know this might be a bit inconvenient, but I was wondering whether you might do me a favour."

"Oh," John said, taken aback, "I dunno... What it is?"

Hurst pressed his fingers together with a slight grimace. "Well, we have a group assignment coming up. It's a big 'un. You'll be split into pairs and asked to write a short piece of fiction, probably a play or a short story. Something of that nature." He shrugged, as though he hadn't read through the criteria sheet himself. "But I was thinking... maybe you wouldn't mind if I paired you with Sherlock Holmes?"

He pulled a face as though he anticipated John would mind very much so.

John stared at him. "Why would I mind?"

Hurst raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Well, that was easier than I thought. I had somewhat gathered that the general sentiment is that he's..." He gestured vaguely. "Well, I'm sure you've noticed."

"Yeah, I think it'd be difficult to miss it," John said drily.

He would have liked to comment on just how obvious it must have been to the teachers what Sherlock was going through, but he didn't suppose he was in any position to be all high and mighty about it. He wasn't exactly Robin Hood, standing up for the oppressed and downtrodden. Certainly not Holmes.

"Why me?" he asked, fighting with a sudden overwhelming sense of self-disgust.

"Well, you've always seemed far more tolerant of him than anyone else," Hurst replied, preoccupied with scribbling something down in his teacher's diary. "I just wanted to avoid too many fireworks. You seem to have an uncanny gift of making people like you."

If nothing else, John thought bitterly.

"Class is starting in a few minutes," Hurst said, glancing up at him. "You might as well hang around."

"Yes, sir," John mumbled, he tugged his bag onto his shoulder and went out to deposit it on the bag racks.

A few boys were beginning to appear. He didn't see Marty, Billy or Ben among them, for which he was thankful. He wasn't looking forward to their comments concerning his "mysterious" phone call.

Sherlock appeared promptly as always, his canvas backpack hanging off one shoulder. John glanced at him as he passed him and Sherlock's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than what felt natural.

John stared after him, wondering whether now the chance to help him had come he would really have the guts to do it.

End of Chapter Two 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had often pondered on the fates of his classmates. Some more than others. They all betrayed so much of themselves in the way they acted and spoke, even the way they dressed. The useful thing about being a loner and an outcast was having a remarkable amount of time to observe those on the other side of the 'glass', so to speak. Those who fit into the social scale more comfortably than he did.

He cast a sideways glance to where John Watson was seated, flanked on one side by a useless lump of flesh called Billy Pip and on the other by a psychopathic coxcomb, Marty Hester. Billy was so dense Sherlock was surprised he could walk and form words at the same time. Marty Hester had all the hallmarks of a future violent offender. Aggressive, narcissistic and far too fond of punishing those weaker than him.

Sherlock had no doubt that Hester would find himself in prison before he was thirty. As for Billy, well, some menial and repetitive job would be found for him. Something that not even he could screw up.

Sherlock relished the thought of their eventual failure. But what about John Watson? What would be his fate?

Sherlock frowned to himself and looked away, not keen to be caught staring. The brief "moment" (and he used the word with intense scepticism) they had shared in the corridor had thrown his well-ordered thoughts into disarray. He hadn't expected John to come barging through those doors and then stare at him with those... insufferable blue eyes. Being so close to him was unbearable. He'd rather go a round with Billy and Marty together than spend another minute that close to John. The threat of destruction seemed far too imminent when he was around.

He didn't trust his body not to betray him. He'd always had better control over his mind than his body. His thoughts were well-ordered, consistent and calculated. His body was less servile. He just hoped that he had avoided going bright red like John had. Though he knew it was for an entirely different reason. John being the blustery little do-gooder he was.

"Mr. Holmes?  _Mr. Holmes!_ Are you listening to a  _word_  I'm saying?"

Hurst's exasperated voice broke into his thoughts like an icepick. He jerked upright, blinking at him without the foggiest idea of what he had asked him. "Sorry, sir?"

There was the predictable sound of contemptuous laughter from his classmates.

"Daydreaming about his boyfriend," Marty simpered, in his usual predictability.

Sherlock had to fight a smile at how close to being accurate Marty actually was. It almost made him laugh at how heavily Marty relied on Sherlock's sexuality to mock him. He didn't know whether they truly knew he was gay or just suspected it or just thought it was the worst insult they could throw at him. If it was the latter reason, they were more pathetic than he had thought.

"Try to pay attention," Hurst bristled, pushing his ugly glasses higher up the thin slant of his nose. "I know it's the first day back but this year is important."

There was a general murmur of dubiety that Sherlock wasn't surprised to hear. Hurst rolled his eyes, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Yeah, yeah. Save it for Principal Harvey," he said, leaning on the edge of his desk. "There are three pieces of assessment this year. An in-class essay on  _Macbeth_ -"

A widespread chorus of groans erupted.

"Well, it was either that or  _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ ," he said, throwing his hands up. "At least there's murder in this one. Then you'll do an oral on discourses in the media and advertising. We do a big chunk on that so I expect you to make it detailed and  _relevant_. No  _YouTube_  videos  _please_." He paused, glancing down at the slip of paper hanging limply from his hand. "The third piece of assessment is perhaps the most major one you'll have for English."

He licked his lips and Sherlock realised with a pang of confusion that he was nervous. Nervous? About a piece of assessment  _they_  had to complete? Odd.

"You'll be split into pairs," he said finally, seeming to collect himself again.

"Oh,  _what_..." Marty muttered audibly, pausing for a moment from his usual activity of vandalizing all his school books. "What a fucking rip."

"Language, Hester," Hurst said sharply. "Besides, this is a major and extremely important piece of assessment and you need to start thinking seriously about what you and your partner will create. It can be a short novel, a play script, an epic poem or whatever else you dream up-"

"Who do we pair with?" someone demanded, asking the question that had been burning in Sherlock's mind.

He didn't do "pairs". He didn't do "teams". He didn't do "dual assessments". He worked alone. Always alone.

"Your pairs have been predetermined," Hurst said, waggling the slip of paper in his hand. "I think you-"

His next words were drowned out by protests and cries of disbelief.

"Shut up!" Hurst barked, his glasses flashing angrily. "That's enough! Stop carrying on like a group of bloody primary school children!"

"Oh come on!" Billy Pip burst out, practically leaping out of his seat with indignation. "This is bullshit, sir!"

" _Language_ ," Hurst said wearily. "Look, it wasn't  _my_  idea but I can't say that I think it's a bad one. You can't just stick with the same people all the time. That's not how life works."

_Speak for yourself_ , Sherlock thought archly.

The protests died down to faint grumblings. Sherlock could feel eyes darting in his direction, all of them begging silently that it wouldn't be them who was saddled with him. Well, he was hardly  _ecstatic_ about it either.

Hurst sent them one last withering look and began to read the names off the slip of paper. Sherlock listened half-heartedly, waiting for his name to be announced next to Billy Pip's or, worse still, Marty Hester's. At least he could just sit Billy in the corner and get it done himself if worst came to worst, Marty would be an absolute and undeniable nightmare to work with,

But Billy Pip's name was read out alongside some other idiot footballer's and Marty Hester's was too. Sherlock frowned at Hurst. This was far too much uncharacteristic good luck for him. Had fate forgotten who he was?

"Sherlock Holmes-"

Hurst had to pause to quieten the wave of sneers and groans which were immediately cued.

"Quiet! For God's sake, have some class. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

Sherlock went rigid in his seat. No. Fucking. Way.

"Haha _ha_!" Marty crowed gleefully, giving John a shove. "Tough luck, mate!"

John smirked and just shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock stared numbly at him.

He almost wished he had been paired with Marty Hester. This was a hundred times worse than anything he could have anticipated. He felt sick to his core.

He didn't hear a word of the rest of the lesson. Hurst dismissed them some twenty or so minutes later and Sherlock waited in his desk for everyone to get out.

Billy slapped him painfully hard on the back as he passed him and grinned in his face. "You better take good care of our golden boy, faggot."

"Cut it out," John mumbled, shoving Billy out of the way.

Sherlock stared after him, his heart in his throat. He waited until they had disappeared and then approached Hurst's desk. Hurst glanced up, seeming unsurprised to see him.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" he said, folding his hands in front of him.

"I want a new partner," Sherlock said bluntly, never one to mince words.

Hurst sighed. "The pairs are finalized, Sherlock. I thought you'd be pleased. John is a nice boy."

_Too nice_ , Sherlock thought drily.

"Why can't I just work alone?" Sherlock snapped desperately.

"That's not an option," Hurst replied shortly. "I have to get to a staff meeting, Sherlock." He stood up and slid a pile of folders into his leather satchel. "At least make an effort with John. He's a good sort. Who knows, you might like it."

Sherlock could have winced at the unintentional double meaning in Hurst's words. He rolled his eyes and stalked out.

And found John waiting for him.

"What do you want?" he barked, deciding self-preservation was now his main goal.

John looked startled by his abruptness. "I... was just..." His blue eyes widened in an infuriatingly endearing manner. "I just wanted to check that you're okay... you know... working with me."

Sherlock huffed. "Well, I don't seem to have a choice."

John visibly deflated. "Oh... I suppose not."

Sherlock inwardly sighed. "Look, let's just keep it professional. I'm a homo freak and you're everybody's favourite sporting hero. It's hardly a match made in heaven."

Uh. Had he really just said that?

John shrugged. "Whatever," he said coolly, clearly not pleased that he had been slapped across the face with his own olive branch. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

He heaved his bag onto his shoulder and disappeared down the hallway. Sherlock watched him go with a pained expression.

He didn't know how he was going to spend every single day in John's company without doing something drastic. He was going to crack and make a complete idiot of himself. And then John would hate him.

He groaned into his hands. This was all so messed up.

Sherlock gave a violent jolt and jerked upright. Successfully smashing his head against the bars of the bed as he did.

" _Ah!_  Bloody hell!"

He clutched the back of his skull, blinking confusedly into the darkness. A crack of yellowy light from under the door was glowing like an orb across the carpet. He screwed up his eyes, massaging the sore spot on the back of his head.

The covers were twisted around his lower half and his legs were damp with sweat. He shifted gingerly where he was, not daring to move too much. If he moved, there was a chance he'd feel something else beneath the covers and he didn't think he could take it... again.

The remnants of the dream were uncomfortably vivid. Sometimes they weren't. But this one he could remember quite clearly. Who knew that his subconscious was so dirty?

He bit his lip. John would not be pleased if he knew how Sherlock treated him in his dreams. But John didn't know how fucking hard it was to resist him when he was begging for Sherlock to touch him and do... unspeakable things to him.

" _Fuck_ ," Sherlock winced.

Yes, there it was. The gooey, warm mess between his legs. And everywhere else.

He slumped against his pillows with a groan. Of all the people in the universe who this could happen to, why the hell him?

He knew what had brought it on. Today's little episode in the corridor. Anything approaching contact with John and his body went haywire with hormonal desire. He was fairly certain that he had chafing on the palm of his hand from the amount of times he had wanked off since being back at school. It had only been a couple of days and he felt starved with longing.

He toppled out of bed and limped across to his chest of drawers. He hurriedly changed into a clean pair of pyjamas and tossed the disgusting, soiled pair in the corner. He went to his bed and ripped back the covers but, luckily, there didn't seem to be any tell-tale stains on the sheets.

"Small bloody mercies," he grumbled, clambering back into bed and tucking his hands behind his head.

When he was away from John and this blasted school he was an entirely different person. He became the person that he wished he could be all of the time. He had never had a problem restraining his outward emotions but inwardly he still didn't know how to control them.

His brother Mycroft, a master of emotional paralysis, prescribed solitude and a healthy disdain of everyone and everything around him. Sherlock tried. He really did. But blue eyes and blonde hair kept forcing themselves into his mind's eye. And that damned smile.

"Fuck it," he moaned, covering his face with his hands.

And what was he going to do when morning came and he was forced into a classroom with John? He would turn in a slobbering, horny animal. John would be safer far,  _far_  away from him.

Of course his brain delighted in telling him just how badly he could screw this up. What about if he made a complete idiot of himself? What about if he blurted out what he felt about John? What about if he... Oh God. Please no. Not  _that_. He stared distrustfully at the spread of his legs underneath the covers. The chances of him getting a flaming hard-on if he was anywhere near John seemed excruciatingly likely as he lay there, with the dream still bubbling heatedly at the back of his mind.

He threw the covers back and began to pace up and down his room, unable to stay still when the torturous thoughts insisted on persisting. He ran a hand agitatedly through his damp hair. He couldn't hear anything from the rooms around his. The light in the hallway was always left on in case of emergencies, but it was probably sometime after midnight. The thought that somewhere along the hallway John Watson was fast asleep, dressed only in... probably that tiny pair of boxer-briefs Sherlock had become so acquainted with, having played that disastrous scene in the changing rooms over and over in his head some fifty million times.

He stopped short where he was. Well, that certainly wasn't helping.

He forced himself to go back to bed. The only thing for it was a good night's sleep. He needed to refresh himself, his thoughts would be more ordered in the morning. This wasn't a total disaster. After all, he could handle this better than the average panting teenage boy. Seeing as he had double the intelligence of the average panting teenage boy.

He stared at the shadows crawling across his ceiling. He still didn't trust his thoughts not to stray immediately back to dangerous territory the moment he closed his eyes. What were these useless moments of lust doing to his subconscious? How could he be at the peak of his intellectual ability if his thoughts were adulterated by such a useless vice?

He thinned his lips. He had to learn to control it. He had learnt to control hunger, thirst, fatigue, pain... emotional anguish, he could control this.

He gave a small, satisfied nod into the darkness and turned onto his side. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes.

But somehow that didn't make the struggle any easier.

Sherlock was pleased to find, on opening his eyes the following morning, that he not lapsed back into his desire fuelled dreamland and his pyjamas were clean as a whistle.

He couldn't help but feel satisfied at his body's ability to correct its own defects. Lust was certainly a defect. Especially for such an unattainable impossibility as John Watson.

He dressed, washed and ate his breakfast with the air of a determined scholar, about to set out on a dangerous but educational expedition. It was all going very nicely until roughly 8:17am when he arrived at home class and found himself face to face with said  _unattainable impossibility_.

"Hi." John looked infuriatingly rested. Sherlock stared down at him, the few inches that separated their heights them making every gentle curve of John's face very apparent. His lips were too pretty for a boy's.

"You're blocking my way," Sherlock replied coldly, backing away so that there was a good foot between them. Just for safety.

John didn't adopt the air of a kicked puppy as he had the day before. Sherlock rued the tiny part of himself that regretted it. Instead, he cocked his head in a challenging manner and held out a callused hand. "I think we got off on the wrong foot," he said pointedly, not shifting from his place directly in the centre of the classroom doorway. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm not... not..." He faltered. "I'm not like..."

Sherlock glanced over John's shoulder to where his footballer cronies were gathered. Was John really trying to tell him that he was different from them? "Not like what?" he said harshly, the air of dislike coming more naturally to him than he had anticipated.

John went pink. Sherlock dug his nails viciously into his palms for daring to think that it was rather cute. "I think we can be civil," he said stiffly, lowering his hand.

"I'm prepared to be civil," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "But we are not friends and I don't wish to engage in some infantile game that suggests we ever will be."

John's eyes narrowed. They were incredibly dark and sharp when he was irritated. Sherlock inwardly slapped himself. He shouldn't have been noticing things like that...

"Fine," he spat, the venom clearly masking a deeper wound that Sherlock's words had caused. If Sherlock had been a different sort of boy, he would felt a thrill at John's desperation for his regard. But naturally he felt no delight at the boy's misguided earnestness. At all. "Look, you're not my dream partner either! I'm just trying to be polite. It's not like I want to do this stupid assignment with you!" John lapsed into silence, huffing.

_And there we have it_ , Sherlock thought archly. John Watson's breaking point. Everyone had a boundary when they couldn't take rejection any longer and backpedalled into self-preservation. Some people could take more rejection than others. John was clearly the sort of boy who  _needed_  to be liked. He craved approval. Sherlock felt a sick little shiver go through him. That was  _not_  supposed to be arousing.

"I'm glad we've settled that," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Do you mind moving now?"

John stared at him in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. He didn't understand why Sherlock was shrugging off his clumsy attempts at a truce. It probably didn't even compute in his mind that Sherlock didn't  _want_  his friendship. "Fine," he said shortly.

He turned on his heel and went across to where his friends were seated. Sherlock took his usual seat at the front, ignoring their guffawing remarks as he passed them. Morons. How could John stand them?

He didn't look at John for the remainder of the class but he knew the blonde's eyes kept flickering towards him. He could sense his gaze on him. Sherlock kept his eyes forward. He felt he had handled John practically throwing himself at him rather well and he didn't need any more temptations to take advantage of the stupid idiot.

As soon as home class was over, he snatched his bag up and hurried out before John could corner him again. He escaped to the bathroom and slumped down by the sinks, sighing in frustration. It would take a few more careful shoves to get John to back off for good. He was smarted but he wasn't truly hurt. If Sherlock was good at something, it was playing to people's weaknesses.

As much as it sickened him to do it, he would have to play to John's. He couldn't risk getting close to him. It sent a miserable trickle through his body to think that he would be hurting the one person in the entire school who he thought might be worth more than the clothes on their back. It made his stomach twist with self-loathing to think that he would be punishing John for  _his_  lack of self-control.

He struggled upright and stared dully at himself in the wide, tarnished mirror that ran the length of the basins. It was difficult to see his own face past all the grime. It wasn't much of a loss. His pale, unearthly looks had never been anything he had been particularly fond of.

He splashed his face with cold water and left, feeling exhausted already by the prospect in front of him and the weight of his own guilt.

_End of Chapter Three_


	4. Chapter 4

John dropped the ball onto the grass. It landed with a damp  _plop_  on the soggy ground and didn't budge. The entire field was still drenched from the torrential rain they'd had a few nights before.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, scooping it up and walking across to have a look at the goal.

He paused at the edge of a large puddle that had formed in a shallow ditch in the centre of it. He skirted around it, muttering profanities under his breath.

For a school that claimed to value its sporting teams _so highly,_ they didn't seem quite dedicated enough to want to invest in an indoor gymnasium where they could practice when it rained. Which happened often enough to be inconvenient.

John dropped the ball and kicked it hard towards the goal. Water and mud sprayed upwards, hitting him squarely in the face. The ball hit the post of the goal and sprang off in the opposite direction. John stared at it, fighting the urge to swear loudly.

He wiped the muck off his cheeks and glanced back towards the school. The other boys would be arriving in another five minutes or so. John liked to arrive early and warm up. It gave him a few moments to himself.

He sighed and squatted down to stretch. The other boys seemed to think stretching was a bit of joke, but they were smiling on the other side of their faces when they got a massive cramp. John rolled his eyes to himself.

He straightened up, squinting towards the stairs. He thought he saw a flash of red. A moment later, there was a distant flash of yellow hair. Well, that would be Marty. By the look of the girth and height of the person behind him, Billy was with him.

John turned away and stared across to the other side of the pitch. The clouds were so thick it looked like the sky had been dyed grey. There were puddles of water pooling in grassy potholes all across the field.

It had been a week and he hadn't attempted to talk to Sherlock again. They had to begin their assignment in a few days, if they had any chance of getting it done by the deadline. Half of him was tempted to find him and _make_ him work as a team. He'd probably try and complete the entire thing by himself if John didn't.

He couldn't understand why Sherlock disliked him so intensely. He was the only person in the school who he felt, perhaps a little presumptuously, _didn't_ deserve Sherlock's antipathy. But Sherlock probably thought it was pretty rich of John to want to be all matey with him, after he had sat back and let his friends lay into him all year.

"Hey, captain! What's with the face, you fucking pouf!"

He watched with a forced grin as Marty led the team towards him, pretending to hump Billy from behind while the others laughed like it was the greatest piece of comedy ever performed.

"You're late," John retorted, tossing the ball at Marty who effortlessly caught it.

"Ooooh!" he crowed. "Sorry, mum. Wanna cook my breakfast and make my bed too?"

"Just shut the fuck up and stretch," John said, glowering along the row of them. He paused at Billy. "Where are your shin guards, Billy?"

"Lost 'em," Billy replied indifferently.

"And what are you going to do if someone lobs a well-aimed kick at your shin with _these_?" John lifted his foot and jerked his head at the studded sole of his football boot.

"I'll rip their fucking head off," Billy growled, staring around threateningly at the other boys.

"Yeah, if you can figure out which end is which," Marty quipped.

The boys sniggered. Billy gave him the finger.

John sighed and went across to the goal. "Hurry up and get in a line. We need to practice working in wet conditions. If the first game is anything like this, we can't afford to be making stupid mistakes. Billy, you first!"

An hour later, covered in mud and soaked to the bone, the team made their way back towards the school. John stayed behind under the pretence of retying his boot. He waited until they had reached the stairs and then straightened up with a sigh.

It hadn't been a _bad_ practice. They were good. They were all extremely good. They wouldn't have been in Redverse if they hadn't been, but they all played with such an air of arrogant, careless indifference. They knew they were going to slaughter the other teams no matter how badly they played. They had never had to work for a victory in their lives. It made John's stomach turn.

He groaned and pushed a hand through his hair. It was like straw from the gentle drizzle which had started to fall while they'd been practicing. His uniform was soaked too. He gave a shiver and plucked the ball from its place in the mud.

This would be his life for the next thirteen weeks until the holidays. Three nights of practices a week, games on Friday afternoons and extra practices when needed. He could hardly imagine how he was going to finish all of his school work at the same time. He supposed no one really cared if he finished it or not. It wasn't like he was there to get an education...

He headed towards the changing rooms, praying that the other boys had bypassed showers and gone straight to the cafeteria for dinner.

As he had hoped, it was completely empty. He undressed and stepped into the nearest shower, tugging the plastic curtain across. The shower stank of wet dog. He hurriedly turned on the hot water, his naked form shivering violently.

And on top of everything, he was supposed to be doing Sherlock a favour and it was all being thrown back in his face.

"Ugh," he groaned, closing his eyes.

He definitely shouldn't have been thinking about it like that. It wasn't as if Sherlock had asked him to do this for him-

There was a dull thud outside the shower. John jolted in fright, almost losing his balance on the slippery tiles. It sounded like someone had collided with the bench that ran along the middle of the changing rooms.

"Who is it?" he snapped suspiciously, wondering if Marty had decided to swipe his clothes and stick them in a bush somewhere.

Someone cleared their throat in a distinctly _unMartylike_ fashion. "Sorry, I was just..."

John's eyes widened. It was Sherlock.

"Hey! Don't run off!" he said hurriedly, sticking his head around the curtain.

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway and turned towards him. He looked very pink in the face. His eyes widened slightly as he took in John's dishevelled appearance.

"I'll be out in a couple of minutes," John said, panting a little from the hot water. "You're here about the assignment, right?"

"Right," Sherlock said, going, if possible, redder. "Sorry... I should have called out or something. Hester said you'd be down here."

"Hester? Oh, right, Marty," John said, surprised that Sherlock and Marty were on speaking terms. "Well, you can wait outside if you want."

Sherlock didn't need telling twice, he was gone before the words were even out of John's mouth. John shrugged and ducked back under the water.

Sherlock really was odd. One moment he was basically telling John to fuck off and the next he was specifically seeking him out and getting all bashful about it. It wasn't like John was truly angry at him for being such a jerk the week before. He didn't expect an apology or anything.

He hastily got out and dressed back into his school uniform, stuffing his wet football kit into his bag.

He found Sherlock waiting for him by the football field stairs. He turned when John emerged. He looked extremely slim and tall in the fitted school jumper and trousers.

John glanced down. He raised his eyebrows at the white rounded converse shoes peeking out from underneath Sherlock's trousers. He was fairly certain _those_ weren't school regulation.

"So," he said, when Sherlock seemed unlikely to break the awkward silence that immediately settled on them. "The assignment?"

"Oh." Sherlock frowned, as though it had been the last thing on his mind. "Do you want to write a play?"

John hadn't even considered what they would do for their assignment, so he wasn't really in a position to say no. "Yeah I'm okay with that," he replied. Sherlock was staring past him to the school. John followed his gaze, a little peeved that Sherlock couldn't keep his attention on him for longer than a couple of minutes. "What sort of play?"

Sherlock looked at him, his sharp eyes veiled. "Mind if I smoke?"

John stared. "Uh... sure."

He watched Sherlock pluck a cigarette from his pocket and balance it between his lips. He took a lighter from his jumper pocket. He easily lit it and took a brief drag. The scent of it swirled up through the cold air. It smelt pungent and familiar.

"Since when do you smoke?" John asked, not sure whether he felt surprised by this small act of rebellion. Sherlock would certainly have been suspended if he'd been caught.

Sherlock looked at him expressionlessly. "Why do you care?"

John shrugged. "I don't," he replied coolly. "I was just curious."

"We could write a murder mystery," Sherlock said abruptly.

John was somehow unsurprised by his suggestion. "Couldn't that be a bit difficult? I mean... murder mysteries have to be complicated."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Have you _never_ seen an episode of _Miss Marple_?" he quipped. "It only seems complicated because they introduce so many decoys and minor characters. In reality it's pathetically simple."

"Do you watch a lot of _Miss Marple_ then?" John smiled wanly.

Sherlock sent him a withering look. "Look, leave the murder to me. You can work out the characters. People are not my..." He paused. "Area of expertise."

You don't say, John thought.

"When do you want to start work on it?" he asked.

Sherlock sent him a look that warned him expressly not to push his luck and took another drag of his cigarette. John found the manner in which he could suck the smoke in and then release it in slow, elegant streams fascinating. It was almost like an art.

"Those will kill you," he remarked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "So will second-hand smoke."

"Touché," John said. "Well, maybe we could meet in my room tomorrow after school and begin work?"

"Wouldn't a classroom be more appropriate?" Sherlock said sharply.

"Fine," John said, taken aback. "Look, I'm not trying to interfere in your life. I just want to get a good mark for this."

Sherlock studied his face in a distinctly distrustful manner. "Alright," he said, not sounding like he believed him. "Well, you better get back to dinner. I'm sure your team mates will be wondering where you got to."

There was only the slightest and almost undetectable element of bitterness to Sherlock's voice. John wished he could ask Sherlock to eat dinner at his table, but he could only imagine how Marty and Billy would react if he did.

"See you tomorrow then," he said grudgingly.

"Bye," Sherlock replied shortly, dropping the cigarette onto the cement and grinding it with the toe of his converse shoe.

John turned and headed back up to the main school building, more than part of him regretting leaving Sherlock standing there in the cold alone.

\--

Sherlock waited until John's figure had disappeared and then crouched down where he was, groaning into his hands. Of all the stupid things he had done, this was definitely the worst.

He should have known better than to trust himself in John's company, but a week of starving himself of thinking about John or being close to John or even looking at John had been torture. The dreams had persisted but they had become vaguer and less passionate as the image of John's face became fainter in his imagination.

He just hoped that the assignment would prove to be a useful cover for his depravities, if nothing else.

Though it had almost been his undoing. Those bloody changing rooms...

Sherlock twisted around and stretched his legs down against the stairs, gazing down to the deserted field. It was beginning to get dark. The sun was about to disappear behind the thick curtain of trees that cradled Redverse to the south.

He would have called out as soon as he'd blundered into the changing rooms, but when he'd heard the shower running and seen the clothes pooled underneath the bench and realised he was within ten feet of a very nude and vulnerable John Watson, he had lost control of his tongue.

It wasn't like he could see anything. The shower curtain was a revolting shade of yellow and completely filthy. He hadn't betted on John sticking his head out though.

Sherlock closed his eyes, sliding a hand gently between his thighs.

John was just perfect when he was like that. Dishevelled and flushed and breathing a little heavily from the heat. He had no idea just how perfect he was. If he had, he wouldn't have tortured Sherlock so viciously.

Sherlock wished he could delude himself and say that John had done it on purpose and his attempts to befriend him were really a cover for deep-seated lust, but he was no fool. No, John was interested by him. He was confused by him. He didn't feel anything else for him.

He could feel himself getting stiff, despite the cold and the damp. John always served to burn him up, no matter how desolate his surroundings. He couldn't touch himself out here. Though it was as empty as a graveyard, there was something obscene about touching himself in a public place.

He straightened up and brushed the dirt off his trousers. He headed back towards the hulking ugliness of the school, wishing he could just walk down the stairs and across the field and over the boundary fence and never look back.

Unfortunately, he had a play to write. It was a bit unkind of him to suggest a murder mystery. John wasn't yet fully aware of how deep his interest in murder ran. He had read more books on forensic science and criminal psychology than the boys of Redverse had had wet dreams.

Besides the books, which could only tell him so much anyway, he had noticed at a young age that he seemed to have rather a knack for noticing things. For want of a better word. It was difficult to explain. He couldn't quite explain it himself, though he knew that his classmates had had more than a little experience with his "observations". He assumed that he just made better use of his eyes than the average person.

He knew where the boys had been partying on the weekend from the smell of their clothes and the sorts of alcohol they had consumed. If it was the pub they stank of cigarette smoke, beer and sweat, if it was a club they smelt of women's perfume and the sticky, sickly smell of cocktails. He could tell when they were lying, when they were uncomfortable. He knew what their backgrounds were, why they acted how they acted. He knew which were straight and which were gay.

There seemed to be a fallacy that the loudest and most obnoxious bully was the gay one, but it was usually the one who didn't want to draw attention to himself and managed to blend in. Marty Hester was certainly not gay. He was as straight as he was a waste of human skin.

He reached the cafeteria and found it mercilessly uncrowded. He didn't care one way or another what the boys said about him but it was boring and annoying to have to constantly listen to their uninspired taunts.

He spotted John in the far corner with Marty Hester and decided to sit along the opposite wall. He collected his plate of meat lasagne and took a seat facing the cafeteria, just so he could have the guilty pleasure of watching John from afar.

He didn't look like he was speaking, just listening to Marty while he ranted animatedly about something, in between shovelling lasagne in his mouth.

He had been sitting there for a while in peaceful silence, staring absently at John's tiny figure on the opposite end of the cafeteria and toying disinterestedly with his lasagne, when James Anderson and his own group of cronies from the year below passed his table.

Sherlock inwardly sighed.

"Alone again, Holmes?" Anderson sneered, coming to a halt opposite him and almost obscuring his view of John.

Sherlock irritably tightened his grip on his fork.

Anderson was a small, pale, ratty little milksop and Sherlock hardly knew how he had conned people into accepting his friendship. He seemed to have little interest in anything but himself.

"Come to congratulate me on the _Academic Achievement_ award, have you?" Sherlock replied coolly. "How many years in a row would that make it? Come now, Anderson. I know your Maths isn't as bad as your English abilities."

He had to glance at Anderson, just for the pleasure of seeing his face contort with indignation. All four years Anderson had been at the school he had been runner up to Sherlock for the _Academic Achievement_ award, the award given to the top performing student in the school. Sherlock's satisfaction was doubled by the fact that he attained it so effortlessly, something that clearly infuriated Anderson, whose desperate academic attempts were made to look average by comparison.

"Well, I hope that your stupid award makes up for your being such a pathetic little loner," Anderson spat and pushed his way through the gaggle of onlookers.

Sherlock watched him go with amusement. Predictable Anderson.

He returned to his dinner. Across the cafeteria, John got up from his table and headed for the door with Marty. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a pang of loathing towards Anderson for interrupting him and snatching precious minutes from him when he could have been watching John.

He watched John until he was out of sight and put down his fork. Suddenly he didn't feel particularly hungry.

\--

John managed to shake Marty off at the door of his room and found it mercifully empty. Billy must have been in the common room along the hall with the others. He kicked off his school shoes and fell heavily onto his bed.

Marty had thought it a great joke to send Sherlock down to the changing rooms while John had been showering. He had recounted his latest piece of comic genius in detail through dinner and John had had to force his laughs. In truth he didn't see the humour in it at all.

He didn't believe all the crap Marty came up with about Sherlock spying on them in the showers. Even if it was true, it didn't make Sherlock any worse than Marty. Marty was a sex-crazed deviant compared to Sherlock. Some of the things he said made John's skin crawl.

It was all just words to them. What was so particularly awful about calling someone a "fag"? How did it differ from calling them a dickhead or a douchebag?

But maybe that was why it was so damn infuriating. They treated being gay like it was something that deserved to be branded and punished. So Sherlock was gay. It didn't mean anything. He was still a frighteningly intelligent... and slightly odd young man. That wouldn't change whether he liked boys or girls or both or neither.

John sunk down onto his back and tried to shut the agitating thoughts out of his mind. Sherlock's figure was haunting his thoughts. In his mind's eye he could see that pale, almost ghostlike hand holding that cigarette to his lips and the smoke curling up around him like fog. He had looked so aged standing there. He had looked as though he had seen so much hardship in his brief life. And yet none of it physically showed on his face. It was just suggested by the darkness in his eyes and he calm way he drank in the smoke from his cigarette.

John turned his head away to the wall, wishing he could block out the noise from the corridors; the endless cacophony of voices and feet thumping against the carpet and hands hitting against the walls.

The door flew open and smashed against the wall. John jolted upright.

Of course it was just Billy, staggering through the door and doubled over with laughter. When he had sufficiently calmed down, John managed to decipher amongst the hysterical sniggering that someone (John assumed that by "someone", he meant Marty) had dacked Ben in the middle of the hallway when he'd been making his way from the bathroom with just his towel on.

Outside, Ben's furious profanities filled the hallway. Billy seemed to lose complete control of himself again and had to lean against the doorway to support himself.

John rolled his eyes and turned back on his side.

_ End of Chapter Four_


	5. Chapter 5

John felt he was now progressing into something that he couldn't divulge to his friends. He didn't think that they, who had no toleration of anyone who deviated from themselves in any way, would understand or appreciate his new and strange interactions with Sherlock Holmes. Since that day outside the changing rooms, they seemed to have made a wordless pact to abide each other though they may have nothing in common.

Though Sherlock continued treating him with occasional prickly suspicion, John sensed a softening in his dislike. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock had snubbed his original offer of a truce. He should have known that a boy as shrewd and intelligent as Sherlock wouldn't forgive and forget so easily. It didn't take long to realise that intellectually he was clearly light-years ahead of the rest of his year group, if not the school.

"I've written up a rough plan for the murder," Sherlock said to him on the first afternoon they met to begin work on the assignment. "It should be enough to start on."

John blinked at him. "Oh, really?" he said guiltily, thinking of how he had spent the night watching  _South Park_  reruns on his phone.

Sherlock pushed a notepad towards him. On it were a number of coloured circles, linked by thick black lines. "Subject A", "Subject B", "Subject C", "Subject D" and "Subject E" had been written beneath them.

"What's that?" John said blankly.

Sherlock snatched it back, rolling his eyes. "It's perfectly simple. Subject A is the murder victim, B is a suspect, C is the culprit. D and E are also suspects but to a lesser extent. They are the decoys present in all murder mysteries. They appear only to throw the audience or reader off the scent of the true murderer."

John stared. "I don't get it."

Sherlock sighed affectedly. "Subject A is a stage actor; it has to be the stage because it's more romantic. Audiences like romance. B is her daughter, she's a budding actress. They have been thrown together in a play. Their mutual relative C is the director-"

"Wait!" John snapped. "Why  _Subject A_ ,  _Subject B_? Why not just give them names?"

Sherlock stared at him coldly. "I thought humanization was your area of expertise."

John bristled. "Well, I didn't know you were going to go back to your room and do all of this-"

"It was nothing," Sherlock shrugged. "It only took ten minutes."

John gaped at him. "What?"

Sherlock closed the notepad. "The bottom line is that the son is the culprit but the mother is the suspect."

"Wait, wait,  _wait_ ," John said, gesturing impatiently. "How could you have done that in ten minutes? It's impossible! You'd have to be a-"

"Genius?" Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly."

"Most murder plots take ages to develop," John said stubbornly.

"Most murder plots are devised by idiots who have no ability to distinguish fantasy from reality," Sherlock retorted.

John was too taken aback and slightly irked by Sherlock's complacency to reply. He didn't know whether he believed Sherlock, but at the same time he did not seem like the sort of person who would exaggerate or lie.

They had met in the empty English classroom three times since then. Sherlock had simplified the murder plot and John had begun work on naming the characters and giving them personalities. If it had been left to Sherlock they would have retained the names "Subject A" and "Subject B".

He certainly hadn't exaggerated his disinterest in people.

"It's late," John said, finally dropping his pen and sitting back in his chair. They had been working since five and it was now eleven. They had missed dinner and John was beginning to get a cramp in his hand, but he had found the writing strangely addictive and gratifying once he had managed to push past the first painful few pages. "I have to get up early tomorrow for practice and I haven't done any of my maths homework."

Sherlock grunted and straightened up as well. "Same time tomorrow then?"

"I can't," John replied, his stomach giving a sickly swirl. "It's the first game of the season."

"Oh right," Sherlock sent him a calculating look. "Good luck."

"Thanks," John said indifferently, packing away his things into his bag and standing. "But I doubt we'll need it." He paused, looking at Sherlock. "Will you be coming?"

Sherlock looked uncharacteristically surprised by the question. "Oh... I don't know," he replied at length.

John shrugged. Sherlock never came to games; he didn't see why this one would be any different.

"Will your parents be there to cheer you on?" Sherlock said archly.

"Yeah, why wouldn't they be? Why would you care?" John said defensively.

Sherlock looked at him strangely. "It was a question."

John coloured. "Yeah, sorry. It's- Never mind," he mumbled. "See you later."

He hurried out, not waiting for Sherlock to reply.

In the deserted hallway, he sighed at himself. Very smooth. He had successfully made his home life an  _issue_. Sherlock was too clever to miss the thorns that protruded from every word whenever his parents were mentioned. He'd eventually work it out. John didn't know if he felt comfortable with Sherlock unearthing things that he had industriously spent the last two years burying.

But he was overreacting. Sherlock couldn't have gathered anything from just one sentence. He was intelligent but he wasn't that intelligent. No one could do something like that. It was impossible.

He comforted himself with that and went for a shower.

\--

Clearly John had an issue with his parents. An idiot could see that.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, chewing his pencil thoughtfully.

It was hard to imagine that Redverse's golden boy could have secrets to hide, apart from the fact that he was clearly nothing like his classmates. They were ignorant, self-centred and took the same vicious pleasure in bullying others as a toddler did torturing a small animal. John was almost painfully naive and kind. It was etched in every feature of his face.

Sherlock was glad that John had halted his attempts to strike some sort of verbal agreement of friendship between them. It gave Sherlock leave to be as distant as he thought safe. The weekly meetings in the library or the classroom were both electrifying and torturous. He was only inches away from John across the table but he couldn't allow himself to touch him or even lean forward and enter John's personal sphere.

But even without touching him, he was not free of him. John's scent haunted him day and night. He couldn't seem to get it out of his nostrils, even when he was in his own private room. It was men's shower gel, cheap deodorant, rain water and, well, his flesh. He just wanted to push John down and inhale him. The detention would be worth it.

But unfortunately he was attempting to avoid doing anything which labelled him a complete lunatic in John's mind. He hated caring what anyone thought of him but John was different. He was worth having a shred of dignity for.

Well, maybe. He clearly wasn't perfect. He was under the thumb of the other boys. He was ignorant and overly credulous. He cared too deeply what they thought of him. It was a weakness that chagrined Sherlock. John was so much better than them-

But he couldn't let those thoughts take control of him. It frustrated him too much. He didn't give a damn what Marty Hester and Billy Pip thought of him but to watch John stand beside them made his stomach turn.

He packed up the rest of his things and returned to his room. The corridors were packed and he managed to slip through more or less unnoticed. Everyone was particularly hyped up because of the game the following day and the approaching weekend. They were allowed to go into the nearby town on the weekends. Not that Sherlock ever did. Most of the boys spent their free time drinking and getting into clubs on fake IDs. Sherlock didn't quite know what the attraction to this was.

John usually went with them, which would mean that Sherlock would have to wait to speak to him again until Monday.

It was a gloomy thought. Their brief and often stilted conversations were the only things that were keeping him from just abandoning school altogether. But then again school was his only sanctuary away from home.

He locked his door and lay on his bed. He had no intention of working on the play without John. He didn't even care about the stupid assignment. The only reason he gave it a second thought was because it was his ticket to spending time with John.

He stared grimly ahead. He didn't know why but the usual euphoric bubble which encased him after every session with John was eluding him tonight. Perhaps it was because John's words kept swimming around in his head and he couldn't stop wondering precisely what it was about John's parents that made him clam up the way he had.

He hadn't decided whether or not he was going to attend the football game. Usually he would have preferred to have all of his teeth pulled without anaesthetic, than go anywhere near a field full of rampaging meatheads, but John's question had sparked a tiny...  _miniscule_ hope inside of him that John wanted him there.

It was unthinkable of course. He was an idiot for even letting himself think about it, but he couldn't help it.

He agitatedly turned onto his stomach. The overpowering image when he thought about the game was the possibility of seeing John in his football uniform. As shallow as that desire was. His desire for John was becoming a low, aching longing in his gut. It gnawed at him day and night like a sort of hunger. He could ignore it if he applied every ounce of self-control in the pursuit but it would take a lot more work to control the part of his brain that seemed to have dedicated itself purely to the act of yearning for John's body.

\--

John could hardly eat the next morning. He felt sick to his stomach and he didn't know why. He knew it couldn't be the game, because that would just be stupid. They had never lost a single game. His father would be there but that was nothing new.

He was greeted by a letter from his mother when the post came around. She had terrible handwriting and a tendency to spell words precisely as they sounded. "Chocolate" became "choclit" and "knife" became "nife". It had originally been extremely confusing but John had trained himself to read her writing. He had tried to teach her some basic spelling and grammar skills once but she had become flustered and impatient after ten minutes and he had given up.

He hated receiving her letters on game days because he knew exactly what they would entail. The same partly reproachful, partly affectionate requests that he make her proud and keep focused and fit and train hard and all the rest of it. He could hear his father in every word and he hated it.

He sighed and folded it and put it with all the others in the top drawer of his desk.

He was late to home class and had to explain himself to Mr. Hurst who didn't really care anyway. His classmates jeered good-naturedly as he made his way to his seat.

Sherlock didn't even look up when he entered. He just continued staring straight ahead, sitting in his very erect, still manner. John felt a pang of resentment but shooed it away. He didn't have any right to expect Sherlock to pay any more attention to him just because they had been thrown together on an assignment. John hadn't earned Sherlock's trust. Perhaps he didn't deserve it.

The day passed too quickly. John spent most of it staring out of the window and dwelling on his mother's letter. It seemed that one minute he was sitting down in his first class of the day and the next he was eating dinner with his team, just a couple of hours before the game.

Ben, who was marginally less obnoxious than the rest of the team, finally noticed that John's altered demeanour and ambushed him when they were taking their plates up to be washed.

"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly.

"Nothing," John replied automatically.

Ben sent him a dubious look. "Look, don't worry about the game," he said, stuffing his plate in the soapy water. "They mess around but they'll put the effort in when it counts."

He jerked his head back towards the table. John glanced over. Marty was flinging mashed potato at Billy's head and the rest were talking so loudly that they drowned out the rest of the cafeteria. John occasionally caught words like "fuck" and "chick" and "gay", which seemed to be their favourite adjective. Save only for "queer" and "lame".

"I'm not concerned," John replied shortly. "I know they'll do their best."

Ben raised his eyebrows. "You've been really weird lately," he said bluntly. "All quiet and shit. It's not that stupid assignment with Holmes is it? He's such a douche, you should just ditch him."

They felt more like accusations than questions. John felt a pang of panic at the mention of Sherlock.

"Ben, just fuck off," he snapped, dropping his plate into the sink. "I'm fine! I'm just thinking about the game! I don't need a fucking shrink!"

He turned on his heel and stormed out.

He passed Sherlock sitting alone at his table and felt the boy's eyes rise to settle on him as he flung the doors open. He felt his cheeks burn and felt like turning and telling him to  _fuck off_  too. He was sick of feeling like Sherlock was watching him and quietly judging him.

He escaped back to his room and changed slowly into his football uniform. As he stripped off, he felt his anger gradually lessen and then dribble way. It hadn't been Ben or Sherlock that his venom had really been directed towards. The person who he meant it for and who deserved it was not in the school.

He couldn't face going back to dinner so he stayed in his room and went over the first act of his and Sherlock's play again and again, until the words hardly made sense. He made a few half-hearted corrections that he would probably change back later.

An hour before the game, he tidied himself up and pulled on his football boots. He found the team already gathered on the football field. The ground had dried off since their first practice but it was still a bit soggy.

"Alright!" he shouted, blasting his whistle. "Ten laps! Go!"

There were groans and protests but they slowly and grudgingly obeyed. At least when they were puffed, they couldn't mess around. John joined them, hoping that the exertion would quiet his stomach.

By the time the boys were beginning to complain, people were turning up. The other team were already here but they were warming up on the smaller field to the west, which John's team rarely used.

There were no stands, so people brought their own chairs or had to stand or make do with the grass. That was what most of the students did. The parents usually brought fold-up chairs.

John knew it would be pointless to give the team a pep talk.

"Marty, watch your ball control. It's sloppy," he said instead. "And Billy, don't throw your weight around. We can't afford to have you sent off. And don't any of you get lazy. Don't take it for granted that we're going to win. St. Anthony's are good-"

"But we're better," Marty snorted.

Fifteen minutes later, the sidelines were crowded with people and the other team had made their way down to the field. The floodlights streamed down onto the field, surrounded by innumerable moths and insects, but it didn't make it much easier to see the faces of the crowd. John didn't think he would have been able to spot Sherlock, even if he had tried. He couldn't see his parents either.

Principal Harvey would be there. His presence was usually the only thing that stopped the boys from becoming overly vociferous towards their opposing team. Marty hadn't stopped abusing them since they had walked onto the field.

"Fuck! Look at the tall one with the ears! What an ugly fucker!"

"Marty," John said through gritted teeth.

"Oh! No  _way_! We have chode! Look at him! Fuck he can hardly walk, the lazy fu-

"Marty!" John spat. "Shut  _up_."

"Fine," Marty said, rolling his eyes. "God, you're so fucking touchy these days."

John decided he wouldn't dignify that with an response and turned away.

Shortly after, the referee appeared.

John jerked his head at his team. "Come on."

He swept his eyes over the crowds as he walked on. He caught a momentary glimpse of a tall, slender figure behind the main bulk of the crowd and dark hair. He was almost certain that it was Sherlock. His heart gave an odd flutter inside of him.

He forced himself to look at the referee. The St. Anthony's boys were close behind him in their orange and white uniform. John had come against them before and recognised their captain. He nodded his head to him and got a brief smile in return.

"Alright!" the referee said, glancing around them. "I want a clean game. No pushing, no shoving, no diving. Just get on with it." His eyes lingered on Billy and Marty. "Got it?"

There were a few nods and murmurs of agreement, though Billy and Marty remained indifferent.

"Alright, captain," the referee said to John. "Heads or tails?"

John hesitated.

"Tails."

\--

Sherlock didn't intend to stay for the entire game. For one, it was freezing. He was wrapped up in a thermal, a woollen pullover, a cardigan and a coat and he was still shivering. There was a gaggle of parents around him, drinking tea from thermal containers and speaking in low, serious voices about the probability of a penalty shoot-out.

Most of the students were collected to one end, which Sherlock had carefully avoided. He managed to find a gap between various shoulders and heads to see the game somewhat clearly. Not that he understood the rules. Or the point.

He tried to be interested for John's sake but the continual sound of the referee's whistle and the approving murmurs or disappointed groans of the crowd made it impossible for him to focus. Twenty minutes later there was a sudden roar of  _"Goal!"_ and he found himself jostled and elbowed on all sides by hysterical parents.

He craned his neck and managed to catch sight of Marty jogging past the crowd with a contemptuous smirk on his face. John gave Marty a congratulatory slap on the shoulder, which sent ridiculous jolts of jealousy throughout Sherlock's entire body.

Soon after, he decided it was time to go and turned and made his way back up to the school.

\--

The final score was 3-nil. Which wasn't as huge as some of their past wins. The team had played well. There had been stupid mistakes, but luckily Ben was an excellent goalie. While the other boys congratulated themselves and made plans to go down into town and swipe some vodka from the bottle shop to celebrate, John made his way over to his father.

"Fantastic work, son," his father said gruffly, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze. "Great goal! Nice control. Didn't panic, kept right on the ball! Excellent stuff. Just excellent. Now, you just need to make sure that when you lose the ball, you don't miss a beat. You get right back on him, alright? Every second counts!."

His father was dressed in his permanently adorned suit. He was the manager of a bank and seemed to think that it was his duty to always dress like he was going for a job interview. His mother was noticeably absent.

"Where is she?" he asked quietly, ignoring his father.

His father fell quiet very quickly. He glanced around with an uneasy chuckle.

"Oh, you know your mother," he said heartily. "She had her book club on. Couldn't tear herself away. She'll come to the next one."

John glanced at his sister. She didn't often come to his games. She was twenty and had moved out of home a year earlier. John envied her a lot.

"I might go and have a quick word with Barry," his father said, nodding towards Marty's father who sported a bulging beer belly and spoke in a booming, obnoxious voice.

John wasn't sorry for him to leave. He smiled wryly at his sister and allowed her to give him a brief hug.

"Nice game," she said, with a grin.

"Thanks," John replied. "Why are you here? I thought you hated this place." He couldn't help the slight edge of bitterness that crept into his voice at the thought that his sister had the choice to stay away from Redverse and voluntarily came there. He, on the other hand, was trapped there.

She shrugged. "It's alright. I thought you might need some moral support." She glanced at their father. "Wanna go for a walk or something?"

"Sure," John said, surprised.

He collected his bag from the bench and they wandered across to the empty western field. They were silent for some time. Harriet was the first to speak.

"How is it here this year?"

"Fine," John said quickly. "Why wouldn't it be?"

She glanced at him, even though the dark he could sense her questioning expression. "Oh... Well, that's good. I just thought... maybe people would... But if not, then that's great."

John sighed. "Well, I haven't exactly... made it public knowledge."

He hesitated, knowing exactly what her response would be.

"At all."

"John!" she exclaimed. "The longer you keep it a secret, the more it'll seem like a big problem that you can't face."

"I know!" he snapped. "I know you're right! But you don't know what it's like here. Those boys..." He jerked his head back. "They'd rip me limb from limb."

Harriet sighed again and it was full of a pity and regret that infuriated him. "You should tell dad."

John choked. "Are you  _serious_? Are you trying to get me killed? Fuck, Harry. I can't believe you would even say that-"

"So, what, you're gonna live your life according to his rules and this stupid school's rules forever?" she retorted. "You're not happy. I know you're not."

"What the hell would you know!" John said hotly, the anger bubbling up inside of him despite his attempts to quell it. "You live miles away now! You don't have to live with dad on your back every single minute of the day. What about if I don't want to go to some stupid football academy? What about if I want to go university? Do something  _I_  want to do for a bleeding change..."

Harriet didn't reply. In the almost pitch darkness they walked along the edge of the trees that separated the school from the common land. The acceleration and adrenaline were beginning to leak away and John was beginning to feel the cold.

He paused to tug his jumper from his kit bag. Harriet stopped, staring back towards the distant floodlights and the school. As he straightened up, she was taking a cigarette from her purse and a lighter.

John felt a pang. "When did you start smoking?"

"A few months ago," she replied, with the cigarette between her lips. She lit it and it shone like a tiny, orange speck in the darkness. The smell filled his nostrils and he thought of another time he had stood in the cold and smelt that scent.

"What does dad think?" he grunted as they began to walk again.

Harriet gave a short, humourless laugh. "He can't talk. He smokes like a chimney."

John shrugged. "They're poisonous."

"Look, don't change the subject," Harriet said. "We're talking about you. I don't think it's healthy to keep all of this just locked away."

John groaned. "Please, can we just drop it?"

"No!' she said sternly. "I'm your sister and I love you. I just want what's best."

"You clearly don't or you wouldn't want me to get beaten up so badly," John replied flatly.

"Look, if you can't tell your classmates, at least tell dad," she reasoned. "School finishes at the end of the year but dad will always be there. Tell him you don't want to play football anymore and tell him you're-"

"I don't need you to tell me what to do!" John bristled. "I'm perfectly capable of making a decision."

"Fine," Harriet said, with an almost audible roll of her eyes. "Do what you want. I just don't think you will ever be happy until you're straight with dad."

There was silence. They both realised her unfortunate choice of words at the same time. Harriet stifled a snigger.

"Harriet," John said reproachfully. "Not funny."

"I'm sorry," she choked through badly suppressed laughter. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

They had reached the far steps that led back up to the main entrance of the school. There was a long, white path which led to front gates. It was lit every few feet by a black iron lamp.

John blinked the sudden light out of his eyes and glanced up at the hulking mass of the school. He had to suppress a sigh. He dreaded the thought of going back in. He wished he could just keep walking.

"Well," Harriet said grudgingly, "I guess we should get back. Dad will be wondering where we wandered off to."

"Yeah," John said. "I suppose."

She dropped her cigarette and ground it into the clean, white stone with the heel of her boot. "Look. Before we go back. I've got a present for you."

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

She dug a hand into her bag and pulled out a magazine. It was rolled up tight with a rubber band. She handed it to him. "Make sure you keep it safe." She winked in a vaguely disconcerting manner.

John stared at it. "What is it?"

"Just a bit of light reading material when you get bored of school books," she said lightly.

John didn't believe her but put it into his bag without comment. They went up the stairs and headed back to the field. The crowds were beginning to thin. His father was still deep in conversation with Barry Hester, to John's chagrin.

He grudgingly went over to break them up.

"Hey, dad," he said, nodding to Barry Hester in greeting.

"Hey, mate!" his father said eagerly. "You know Barry Hester? Marty's father."

"'Course he does!" boomed Barry, giving John a painful slap on the shoulder. "Marty's his best bloody striker! I was just telling your dad, we reckon he's got a pretty good shot at being spotted by a scout. He's got just the right stuff you need to go professional I reckon."

"John's hoping to go professional too," his father replied, with an element of pride that made John's stomach turn. "Aren't you, son?"

John nodded numbly.

Barry gave him another painful slap. "Excellent stuff! You're a good captain. Best this school has seen. Keep going the way you're going and you could go all the way, lad."

John forced a smile. "Thanks very much." He turned to his father. "Dad, I'm going to head back."

"Alright then," his father said, grinning at him with such overwhelming pride that John wanted to shake him. "I'll get your mother to write to you or send you an email or something. Once she's finally got her head around using the internet." He tapped his forehead and rolled his eyes in a contemptuous manner. John's stomach clenched with cold anger.

Barry gave a loud, brash laugh. "Women, aye! They know their away around fifty knobs on a bloody oven but they can't use a computer or drive a car to save their lives! I dunno!"

John heard Harriet give a disdainful laugh from behind him, which Barry clearly took as a mark of self-deprecating agreement because he winked at her. John couldn't even force a smile and thought it would be best to just turn away and get as far from the two idiots as possible.

He had no intention of going to the team party. He was being overwhelmed by the urge to climb under the covers and stay there all weekend.

He managed to slip into his room without attracting any attention. He could hear the rest of the team singing at the top of their lungs from the common room and didn't think he would be disturbed. He locked the door just in case. He didn't think Billy would be coming back. Usually after a binge, he passed out on one of the common room sofas.

He stripped off and changed into his pyjamas, feeling too tired and irate to go for a shower. He'd get up early and hit the showers before a line formed.

He was sitting on his bed, brooding on how much he hated Barry Hester when he suddenly remembered Harriet's "present". He got it from his bag and carefully unfurled it.

He smoothed it out straight and felt the colour drain from his cheeks. For a moment he was too stunned to fully compute what it was.

Then it hit him in one rather rapid wave. Sprawled across the cover was the bare-chest of a rather bronzed and toned young man. He was obscured from the waist down, though the incline just below his hips was disconcertingly obvious. His slouched posture was decidedly provocative.

John felt the blood rush back into his cheeks as he took in the word  _Slab_  printed in broad, bold letters across the top. He dropped it without completely meaning to and it hit the carpet with a resounding slap. He stared at it disbelief and horror. If this was his sister's idea of a joke... God, sometimes he could  _strangle_  his family.

He heard footsteps outside and hastily scooped it up and stuffed it into his kit bag, his heart pumping. The footsteps faded away but he didn't relax. He had to get rid of it. If anyone found him with that sort of...  _thing_  on him, he was as good as dead.

He kicked his kit bag under his bed and forced himself to lie down. There was no point in freaking out. Tomorrow he'd work out a plan. It would be easier to get rid of it on the weekend when the boys were at home or in town than what it would be during the week. He could probably sneak down to the bins unnoticed. Small bloody mercies.

He could still hear the increasingly drunken commotion from the common room. Someone was singing a rather awful rendition of  _Swing Low,_   _Sweet Chariot_. John hoped that they were being ironic, as it was in actuality a  _rugby_ song. He didn't think so somehow.

He slid under the covers and tried to force himself to relax but his conversation with his sister had served to rile him up too much. She made it sound so easy. It was different when you were on the outside looking in. She didn't understand John's position. One faulty move and everything could come tumbling down.

And her cigarette had reminded him of Sherlock. He hadn't seen him after the game. He must have left early, which wasn't surprising. He could imagine Sherlock's face if he could see just how dysfunctional John really was. Completely unable to face his father or help his mother. Being smuggled gay porn by his sister...

His "sporting hero" image would certainly vanish pretty quickly.

He turned onto his stomach and buried his head into his pillow, trying fruitlessly to drown out the noise from the common room.

_End of Chapter Five_


	6. Chapter 6

John was noticeably absent from breakfast the next morning. Sherlock wondered if he was sleeping off a hangover like the rest of the team. He was aware that they had gotten pretty loud the night before and had been given a stern dressing down by the Vice Principal, by which point they were probably too drunk to really give a damn anyway. They had all been put into lunchtime detention for a week; something he doubted would have a particularly staggering effect on the boys' drinking habits in the long run. But the school had always turned a partly blind eye to the football team's exploits.

Sherlock finished his porridge and headed back to his room, planning to spend the day rereading _A Brief History of Criminal Justice_ cover for cover. Anything to keep from replaying the football game again and again in his mind. He had already wasted a night's sleep doing that.

As hard as he tried to forget it, there was something distinctly unnatural about John when he was so firmly immersed in his "well-rounded prefect-in-training" role. The vague irritation Sherlock used to feel watching John with his friends had snowballed into a sickening frustration. He wasn't who they thought he was. He wasn't that person. Sherlock wanted to break all the lies apart.

As he rounded the corner into the dorms, he was surprised to see John himself emerging from his room. He looked surprisingly well-rested. Well, compared to the rest of the team. He looked different dressed in plain clothes; a pair of fitted jeans and a t-shirt that seemed to cling to every inch of his toned torso.

Sherlock felt his heart climb up into his throat. He knew he couldn't just walk past, though the temptation was there. He didn't know what to say.

Before he had made up his mind to approach him, John turned and saw him. He smiled. "Hi."

Sherlock grudgingly stopped in front of him. "Good morning."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Sherlock noticed that John had a slight speck of toothpaste on the curve of his top lip. The temptation to lean forward and lick it off was overwhelming.

"Did you end up coming to the game?" John asked finally.

"For a bit," Sherlock replied.

John smiled wryly. "I'm surprised. I didn't think football games were your thing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't distance myself from particular events just because it may damage whatever image you think I hold of myself. Football just does not interest me."

John smiled bitterly. Sherlock sensed that he wanted to say something, but wouldn't let himself.

Instead he changed the subject. "What are you up to today?"

"Nothing that would interest you," Sherlock said coolly.

John's laugh sent a warm shiver up Sherlock's spine. "Try me."

"Just a book," Sherlock said vaguely. "I suppose you'll be going into town?"

John pulled a face. "I don't know. My friends aren't really in the right shape to be wandering around town."

Sherlock shrugged, not wanting John to think that he cared too much about what he did in his spare time. "Well, maybe you could work on the play. There's plenty of work to be done on it."

He glanced down at the toes of their matching _Converse_ shoes. They had something in common after all. When he looked up, he found John watching him. He felt the heat rise to the surface of his skin but managed to hold his gaze without faltering.

"Um I..." John broke off, going visibly pink.

"Yeah?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

"Maybe... if you weren't at all busy..." John continued rapidly, "we could... hang out."

Sherlock stared at him. John couldn't possibly have said what he thought he'd just said.

He must have had an uncharacteristically blank expression on his face because John's cheeks went even darker and he began to ferociously backpedal. "I-I mean just because you... you haven't got much to do and my friends are busy..." he said hastily. "It doesn't have to be a recurring thing."

Sherlock somehow managed to regain control of his mouth. "Oh... I really... I'm..." he stammered, his verbal auto-pilot crumbling. "I have a lot of homework," he finished lamely.

He inwardly winced. He could have at least thought of a convincing lie.

"Oh, right. Of course," John said, nodding his head fervently. "Absolutely. I understand. I just thought-Sorry, I should have realised-"

"No," Sherlock said. "It's fine. Thanks, ah, for the offer."

They stared at each other.

Sherlock could feel the colour beginning to rise in his own face. There was about six inches between them, and Sherlock could see every line of John's face with unnerving clarity. He could smell that John had just come out of the shower. The scent of his shampoo was still in his hair.

Sherlock was overwhelmed with the desire to lean down about two inches, that was all it would take, and press his mouth to John's. He wanted to touch the base of John's neck and gently guide his body against his. He wanted to run a hand down John's stomach and touch his hips and gingerly press his tongue inside and lick that speck of toothpaste off slowly so that John gasped with pleasure.

He gave himself a mental shake. He hadn't realised quite how intently he had been staring at John, he was beginning to look vaguely disconcerted.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later," John said awkwardly.

"Right," Sherlock said, in a weird, hearty voice that he'd never heard himself use before. "Bye."

He escaped into his own room and flattened himself against the door, hardly able to believe what had just happened. He couldn't help giving himself a pinch.

He stared at the opposite wall in a daze. John was probably still where he had left him, staring at Sherlock's door and wondering what had gotten into him. Then he would turn and make his way to the cafeteria or wherever else and would probably end up going into town with someone else.

Sherlock grimaced. John had basically offered himself up on a plate and Sherlock had said no. John _wanted_ to spend time with him. It was almost unthinkable. Sherlock had thought that he'd made his position perfectly clear to John. He had done everything in his power to keep a safe distance between them.

But in the past week there had been moments when the conversation between them had become... almost natural. He had even found himself laughing with John once. His resolve had definitely softened. John's smile had melted him down to a gooey puddle.

A tinny voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him that playing happy couples with John Watson was a very stupid idea, but it was being drowned out by the mass of fireworks that had begun simultaneously exploding in his brain.

But then again, it could just be pity that motivated John. It wasn't like John would really choose him over his friends to spend time with. He would still prefer to be with Billy Pip or Marty Hester. Sherlock was just a last resort.

Sherlock stared at the opposite wall. Half a second later, he threw open the door and hurried back out into the hallway. John's blonde head was just disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall.

Sherlock hastily followed him.

"John!" he called, as he reached the corner and saw John halfway down the next corridor. "Hey! John!"

John thankfully heard him and turned. Sherlock hurried to meet him.

"Yeah?" John stared at him.

"Is it too late to take you up on your offer?" Sherlock said, attempting a small smile.

John looked blank for a moment and Sherlock thought in horror that he was going to say 'yes', but then he grinned. "Of course not. I'll grab my wallet."

\--

At first the conversation was extremely stiff. John made small talk about the assignment and Sherlock pretended to be interested, but really he was just enjoying the way John's hand occasionally brushed against his by accident as they walked along the high street.

"I think we should change the beginning of act one," John said seriously. "We should begin closer to the action. A little preamble would be okay, but not too much. We don't want to bog it down with too much back-story."

"That sounds very wise," Sherlock replied. He had to admit, he was extremely surprised by John's gusto when it came to the play. John had never struck him as a particularly academic sort.

"And I was thinking that maybe we should make the rehearsal scene shorter," John went on, completely missing Sherlock's smirk. "It goes on for a fair few pages and I think that it might be a bit overly complicated."

"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, noting how bright and blue John's eyes looked in the midday sunshine. "We can go over it on Monday perhaps?"

"Yeah," John said, glancing at him. "Good idea."

Silence fell. Neither of them seemed to want to prod a little bit further, to dare to venture onto subjects beyond schoolwork. Sherlock didn't mind the silence. He was almost happy in John's company and that was not a state he was used to being in. Though the tinny voice still hadn't shut up and was whinging away in a far corner of his mind.

They reached a cafe and decided to stop for a coffee. They sat outside, underneath a wide red and white umbrella. John ordered a cappuccino and Sherlock ordered black coffee without sugar.

He watched as John poured about half a ton of the stuff into his own cup before drinking it.

"How do you taste the coffee over all of the sugar?" he quipped, as John took a sip and successfully got froth all over his lips.

John darted a tongue out and licked it away. Sherlock shifted very slightly in his seat.

"Hey! You can hardly question _my_ tastebuds when you order that crap," John retorted, nodding to Sherlock's cup. "It must be bitter as all hell."

"I like my coffee to taste like coffee," Sherlock replied archly.

"That says a lot about you," John said. His eyes were glinting slightly. "You like people to be without pretence. I'm too bogged down with appearances clearly." He grinned, nodding at his own frothy, sugary concoction.

"Is that your attempt at psychology?" Sherlock replied drily. "Do you plan on being a shrink when you finally escape the hallowed halls of Redverse School for Boys?"

"No," John said, his grin vanishing. "I don't really know what I'll do."

"You're fairly adept at football," Sherlock said, watching him closely.

John looked at him, the displeasure evident in his eyes. "Yeah, well. We don't always have to pursue something just because we happen to have a freak talent for it," he said flatly.

Sherlock didn't think John realised just how much he gave away of himself whenever he spoke. He was so earnest and unpretentious. It was both a charm and a curse.

"What are you interested in?" Sherlock asked, taking a sip of coffee.

"Well, lots of things," John replied. "Music, movies-"

"I mean to pursue as a career," Sherlock interjected.

"Oh," John looked taken aback for a moment. "I don't really know."

The way he glanced away told Sherlock that he did know. Very much so. He just wouldn't tell.

"Well, whatever it is, I hope you pursue what interests you and not what you feel should interest you," he said, deciding that pressing the subject would do more harm than good.

"I suppose you want to be a police officer or something," John asked suddenly. "With all those books on criminals and forensics and whatever."

"Hardly," Sherlock said disdainfully. "The force is a hotbed for corruption, nepotism and self-serving disinterest in anything that might derail their own upward ascent."

John raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Well... I just thought... You devised the murder for the play so easily. You seem to know... _a lot_ about that sort of thing."

He was watching Sherlock very earnestly. Sherlock had never met anyone who was genuinely interested in him. He had become used to irritating and unnerving people.

"Oh..." Sherlock shrugged. "It's just a... freak talent I suppose." He smiled wryly.

John laughed and drained the remainder of his cup. "Want to keep walking?"

They wandered further along the strip of shops and houses and then turned into another and then another. Sometimes they spoke, but more often they didn't. Sherlock occasionally allowed himself to glance at John and felt his heart swell foolishly inside of him every time.

He could sense danger. The closer he got to John, the more his senses told him to get far, far away. The tinny voice had become a low ringing in his ears.

They finally turned back when they reached the very edge of the town and found themselves staring at open fields. Sherlock had barely noticed how his feet had begun to ache and how much he needed a drink of water.

As they were walking back towards the school, the sun began to set. Sherlock hadn't been away from the school for this long on the weekend in all of the time he had been at Redverse.

John gave a wide yawn beside him, just as they were reaching the familiar neon lights of the high street. These were the clubs that the boys managed to get themselves into. It wasn't difficult with fake IDs and blind confidence. He didn't suppose the bouncers particularly cared, as the Redverse students probably contributed a nice slice to the club's profits.

"Am I boring you?" Sherlock remarked wryly.

John grunted. "Sorry, I didn't sleep well last night. The team can get a bit excited after games." He laughed, but not in an entirely convincing manner. "Not that they need an excuse."

Sherlock glanced at him. He would have liked to ask why John put up with them, why he lowered himself to their level, why he grovelled for their approval, but he forced himself to be tactful. He had learnt that if he pushed John too hard, he tended to snap closed faster than a clam guarding a pearl.

"Hey, I know it sounds boring but maybe we should try and fix up those things for the play," John said to him when they reached the deserted dormitories. "I mean, we've only got a few weeks before the first draft is due."

Sherlock didn't really have any interest in working on the play any more often than they had to, but he wasn't going to turn down a few extra minutes in John's company. "Ok, sure."

"We might as well use my room," John said, stopping at his door. "Billy never came back last night."

Sherlock decided not to ask.

John's room was surprisingly well-kept. Well, Billy's side left a bit to be desired, what with the piles of dirty washing strewn across his bed, but John's side was _profusely_ clean. The bed was made, the floor was clean, his clothes were folded in a pile on his chest of drawers. All of his shoes were arranged in a straight line. It bordered on the obsessive.

John knelt down by his school bag and dug out the incomplete manuscript. Sherlock stood awkwardly by the door. He hadn't ever had this degree of privacy with John before. The images that had inevitably leapt into his mind were torturous.

John sat on the edge of his bed and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock numbly obeyed, though he could feel dangerous amounts of heat and blood pooling around his crotch. John flipped open the manuscript and began to draw lines through all of the sentences on the first page.

Sherlock could hear him breathing. There was a very faint tinge of sweat mixed with the shampoo now. He closed his eyes and imagined that he could feel the heat of John's body beside him and the each, individual beat of his heart.

"Right," John said suddenly, bringing Sherlock rapidly back to earth. He opened his eyes. "I think it works better if we start here."

He pointed to a paragraph halfway down page two.

"What do you think?"

Sherlock really didn't care. "Yeah, that's much better," he said smoothly, edging subtly away from John on the bed to try and put some space between him and John's suffocating sphere.

"Yeah, I think that's much better," John said with satisfaction. He flipped over a couple more pages. "This can definitely go." He crossed out a large paragraph. "What about this one? Do you think it's a bit too clunky?"

Sherlock stared at the curve of John's mouth and the way it fell open slightly when he was thinking. "Yeah, absolutely," he said vaguely.

"I'll try and shorten that," John said, making a brief note in the margin. "I'll sort that out on Monday. And we'll try and compact the rehearsal scene down a bit more, just to make it a bit more concise."

John moved his hand and it accidentally brushed up the length of Sherlock's thigh. He didn't seem to notice but Sherlock felt it like a hot poker being pressed into his skin. "Sounds good," he croaked.

"Hey," John snapped the notepad shut and looked up. "I might get a Coke or something from the vending machine. Do you want something?"

"No," Sherlock replied, though his mouth felt extremely dry.

John dropped the manuscript onto the bed and stood. "Alright, be back in a minute."

Then he was gone and Sherlock could finally breathe. He stood up with a deep sigh and stared around the room. Never, in all his wildest wet dreams, had he thought that he would find himself here, in John's room.

He could hardly comprehend how just a few weeks ago he and John had never spoken and now they seemed almost to be approaching that strange and mysterious territory of "friends". He had never had a friend in his entire life. He had never regretted the absence and he was still uneasy about the word.

He wandered across to Billy's side of the room and glanced around the mess. School books, muddy shoes, empty cans, packets of cigarettes, a soccer ball were scattered around in senseless disorder. It was the perfect opposite of John's immaculate living area.

He hadn't imagined John to be so neat. Though there was certainly an element of stiffness about his personality, a degree of formality that his down-to-earth cheerfulness couldn't always hide. He seemed to be held back by something. It was probably something that caused him great pain, but without it he would just be other drooling Neanderthal like Billy Pip. For that reason alone, Sherlock selfishly thought he was better for having experienced it.

He shook his head and turned back to John's bed. He frowned. John's kit bag was lying untidily underneath, just visible from where he was standing. Part of John's shirt was sticking out and it was covered with grass. It looked completely out-of-place when all of John's other belongings were carefully categorized.

Sherlock glanced at the door. The vending machine was in the common room, which was down the other end of the hall. And if it was broken, which was likely after a night of treatment from John's friends, he would have to use the one in the cafeteria.

Sherlock hastily knelt by John's bed and pulled it out. He tugged the t-shirt out of the way. Underneath there were a dirty pair of boots, a towel and a magazine crammed into the corner and covered in dirt. He gingerly picked it out and sat back to look at it.

"I can't believe it was sold out of Coke _again_. Those bastards do it every ti-"

John stopped short in the doorway. Sherlock looked at him and saw the colour drain from his face as his eyes flickered from Sherlock to the magazine in his hands.

"What are you doing?" he stammered, his eyes widening with horror.

Sherlock looked back at the magazine cover and the partly undressed youth on the cover. He knew what it was, but his mind didn't seem to want to make the connection between this and John.

John slammed his drink down onto the desk and stalked across to Sherlock. He snatched the magazine out of his hands, slicing the inside of Sherlock's thumb. "You had no right to go through my things." His voice was seething with anger.

Sherlock hurriedly stood up. He had never seen John look like this. He was violently flushed. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said numbly. "I didn't mean to-"

John flung the magazine down onto the bed. "Just get out, will you?" he spat.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment in silence, watching how John's chest rose and fell furiously. "Alright, I'll go."

He left without a glance back and didn't stop until he was back in his own room. His heart was palpitating so rapidly that he could hardly feel the separate beats. His mind had gone completely blank. For once he didn't have anything to make of this. No clever observations or shrewd conclusions, just thick, foggy numbness.

_ End of Chapter Six _


	7. Chapter 7

Around six in the evening, the football team began to rouse from their various falling places. Billy somehow managed to drag himself back to John's room to sleep the remainder of his hangover off.

John didn't respond to Billy's grumbled complaints about his headache as he came lumbering through the door. He hadn't moved from the bed since he had kicked Sherlock out half an hour ago.

He was still numb. He couldn't believe that Sherlock, of all people, would have done that to him. Sherlock, who repelled every attempt to have his hard exterior penetrated. John didn't know how Sherlock would respond to his newly garnered intelligence about John's private life. Part of John didn't want to care, but a far larger part of him dreaded what Sherlock now thought of him.

It was hard to admit that Sherlock's opinion mattered so much to him. But it did.

Billy had clambered under the covers of his bed and was snoring. He probably wouldn't wake for another few hours. Glancing carefully at him, John knelt down and carefully took the magazine from its new hiding place under his pillow. He slid it under his pullover. He also pulled his school jumper on over the top for extra protection. The tight band around his hips successfully kept it in place against his stomach so he could walk more or less naturally.

He decided to go the less well-travelled route so he could avoid the cafeteria and the common room. His concern about being caught was massively overridden by his desperation to get rid of the magazine as quickly as possible. However, he walked with his head down to deter anyone who might think to interrupt him.

Unfortunately it didn't work on everyone.

"Hey! John!"

He froze at the sound of Marty's voice. He slowly turned, a cold rush of dread sweeping through him. He nervously touched his stomach. "Hi, Marty," he said, forcing a grin. "Good night?"

"Fuck," Marty said, returning the grin with far more enthusiasm. "It was a good one, ay? But I reckon I could get fucked up again tonight. You up for it?"

John hesitated. He never really enjoyed going out with the football team. They were a bit too drunk, a bit too loud, a bit too obnoxious for his tastes when they went out and about. "I'm not sure," he said finally.

"Aw, come on!" Marty groaned. "You're no bloody fun these days. I think that fucker Holmes is starting to rub off on you."

John gave a humourless laugh. Just thinking about Sherlock made his stomach contract with humiliation. He shifted uncomfortably where he was, the magazine's weight seemed to sag down against his clothes.

"Yeah," he said abruptly, hoping it would get Marty to leave him alone. "Actually, you know, I'll come. Where are you off to?"

"Sweet," Marty said, punching John's shoulder triumphantly. "Some party down in the town. Should be good. We'll split some cash for some cheap booze, ay?"

"Sure," John said, though he had never liked the taste of it. "Yeah, I could use a drink. You think we can get anything stronger?"

"Might be able to swipe some shit from the bottle shop," Marty said, shrugging. "Have to be careful though. The dick who runs it might get suspicious. I can probably get a hold of something though."

John decided not to ask how. Marty had his ways.

"Fine," he said. "Sounds good. I'm going to go for a run."

He shifted the magazine under his pullover; the corner was digging into his stomach. Marty glanced down at his school jumper. John's heart stopped in his chest. If Marty got suspicious, if Marty thought he was trying to hide something he wouldn't stop until he knew what it was. If John was caught with the magazine on his person, he was as good as dead.

"On the weekend? Shit, man. You work yourself too hard." Mercifully Marty didn't seem to notice the very slight rectangular shape against the grey acrylic.

John shrugged. "Just want to keep fit," he said, desperate to get away. "See you later."

"See ya, man," Marty said, slapping his back.

John turned and hastily made his escape. He didn't stop until he was safely down in the courtyard at the back of the school. It was rarely used, except as a handy storage place for bins, unused furniture and sporting equipment. Students weren't really supposed to go down there but they often did to smoke or smuggle banned items into the dumpster. Such as explicit material.

John stood in front of the largest dumpster, glancing around from one side to the other and then up to the tower of windows above him. They were dark and empty. It felt like he was being watched by dozens of blank, rectangular eyes.

In one swift movement he plucked the magazine from under his clothes and jammed it into the dumpster, barely daring to lift the lid more than an inch. He dropped it shut and hurriedly made his way back to the school, not looking back. With every step he expected to hear someone yell for him to stop.

He spent the remainder of an anxious and miserable afternoon pretending to do the pile of homework he hadn't gotten around to doing for the past week. He couldn't concentrate. His stomach was turning; his mind kept replaying scenes in his head that he just wanted to forget. Even with the magazine gone, he was far from free from the repercussions of its discovery. Sherlock would never believe John's excuses. John didn't quite know what Sherlock intended to do with the information, but there was an uneasy flicker inside of him every time he thought about how Sherlock could punish him with this information. John had never done anything for him, this could be Sherlock's perfect opportunity to throw back some of his mistreatment onto John. More than part of John wouldn't have blamed him.

Around six he gave up attempting to work and went to have a shower. It was packed at this time of night and he didn't return to his room until quarter to seven. He met Billy on the way, who looked unsurprisingly rough given the amount he had drunk the night before. John was extremely surprised that he was intending to come out and drink with them _again_ , but he knew that there was nothing he or anyone else could say to dissuade him.

"The others are waiting in the cafeteria," Billy grunted, rubbing his swollen eyes. He still stank of sweat and alcohol, only weakly obscured by a coat of deodorant. "You better hurry up."

"Yeah, yeah," John said. "I'll catch up."

Billy disappeared and John quickly towelled his hair dry and stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and his phone into his front one.

He was almost ready to go when there was a quiet knock on his door. "I'm coming!" he shouted, hurriedly tying his shoelaces. "Just wait two seconds!"

"It's me."

John stood up quickly, staring at the door. "Go away," he said coldly.

Nonetheless the door opened. Sherlock stepped inside, seeming irritatingly unmoved by John's unfriendly reception. He didn't seem to have been expecting anything else.

"Are you deaf?" John snapped.

Sherlock ignored him and shut the door. John stared at him in annoyance. He did not want to be stuck in a room with Sherlock tonight. He wanted to be as far from him as possible. He knew he must have been flushed; his embarrassment must have been obvious and yet Sherlock stayed.

"Look, I just wanted to apologise," he said calmly.

"I don't care," John retorted. "Just get out. I'm going out and the boys are expecting me in five minutes."

Sherlock didn't look surprised. "I know," he said.

John couldn't stand the way Sherlock was looking at him. His eyes were too penetrating, too knowing. With those simple words, he said so much more than what he meant. "I can do whatever the fuck I want," he hissed. "It has nothing to do with you."

Sherlock's expression didn't change. "You're better than them, John," he said quietly. "You don't have to play by their rules just because you're scared they'll find out-"

"Shut up!" John snarled. "Just shut up! Fuck. You think you know everything about me. You don't know anything. Just leave me alone!"

He knew he was overreacting, that his venom was completely unwarranted but he was too furious to care. Sherlock's silence was infuriating. John shoved him to one side and stalked out the door. He didn't stop until he had reached the doors of the cafeteria.

\--

The party house was already packed when they arrived. People were spilling out onto the upstairs balcony. Music was blaring, making the whole street vibrate and the inside was thick with smoke.

John stayed close to Marty, Ben and Billy. He hadn't been out in such a long time. He had almost forgotten what it was all about. He accepted Marty's offer of a drink and ended up sharing a whole bottle with him. There was also beer in the bathtub of the upstairs bathroom but there was a general flow of booze from all over the place.

They managed to snag an empty sofa in the living room, or what was left of it. Marty disappeared early on in the evening with some girl and left Ben, Billy and John to talk amongst themselves. Billy was more interested in getting drunk than anything. Ben was in the middle of a fairly animated discussion with two boys on the English Premier League. John sat by himself, sucking on his beer and feeling increasingly light-headed and tipsy. He knew he had already drunk too much, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. The more alcohol he consumed, the blurrier and more distant his horrible conversation with Sherlock became.

He was passed a vodka shot and he had swallowed it before he had completely realised what he was doing. He did another and finally Ben stepped in and said that he had probably had enough for the time being. John didn't argue. He still had a beer in his hand to finish.

"That bird in the corner has been staring at you for the last thirty minutes," Ben said in a low voice, holding John steady, who was beginning to acquire a telltale sway in the way he was standing.

John knew Ben was trying to distract him but decided to humour him. He looked around and saw that a fairly attractive girl with dark hair and an almost nonexistent pink dress was indeed watching him. She smiled at him, shaking her very straight hair back from her face.

"Go and talk to her," Ben said, nudging him. "She's not half bad looking."

"Yeah, might s'well," John slurred, with an indifferent shrug.

He half walked, half stumbled over to her and stuck out his hand. She laughed and shook it, giving her long hair another shake.

"Hey," she said, smiling sweetly.

"Hello," he said, leaning against the door. Her heavily painted face lost a lot of its charm up close. Her foundation was too thick and her mascara had all clumped together. "You from around here?"

"Sure, just five minutes away," she replied, leaning closer to him. "You?"

"Redverse," he grunted, jerking his head back towards Ben.

She glanced at Ben over his shoulder. "Oh! Really? It's an all boys' school, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John said, taking a mouthful of beer. "Shit hole."

She gave another syrupy laugh. "Don't you ever miss being around girls? I bet it gets lonely there."

Her hand was on his arm now. There couldn't have been more than an inch between them. Her cheap perfume was making him feel slightly ill.

"You look really pretty," he mumbled, glancing away to take another swig of beer.

"Aw, thanks," she said, with a wide smile. She put her mouth close to his ear. "You want to see what upstairs is like?"

John leant back to look at her. "Yeah, okay," he said, without completely knowing why.

They threaded through the crowd towards the stairs, the girl's clammy hand wrapped tight around his. They went up, passing entwined couples along the hall. The upstairs was full of people too, but to a marginally lesser extent. Most of them were wrapped around each other, tongues jammed down each other's throats.

Even in his current state, John knew this wasn't want he wanted. But he he had no idea how to get out of the situation. She pulled him close to her. He was uncomfortably aware that there were a lot of people around and of her hands pressed too close against his body.

"Relax, doll," she said softly, putting her mouth close to his. "You need to loosen up."

Before John could reply, she had leant forward and mashed her sticky mouth against his. He felt her tongue jam itself between his lips.

John jerked backwards, the beer slipping from his grasp. It hit the floor and shattered, surprising the girl into breaking away. John's relief was marred by the foggy sensation that had invaded his mind. He stared at her blearily, hardly able to focus on her face.

"Are you alright?" she exclaimed, trying to grab his arm.

"I'm fine," he said, pulling himself from her grip. "Sorry, I have to go."

He ignored the commotion that had broken out around his broken bottle and pushed his way through the crowd to the stairs and down to the front door, desperate for fresh air. He could still taste her lip gloss and the alcopop she had been drinking.

His stomach turned violently inside of him. He leant heavily on the garden gate and bent over into the garden, throwing up violently into the darkness. He heard someone come out behind him. He hoped desperately that it wasn't the girl.

He turned and was relieved to find that it was Ben, still holding his own beer and an unlit cigarette.

"Hey, I saw you running out. What's wrong? That bird no good at kissing or something?"

"I feel fucking awful," John mumbled, and it was the truth. "I'm going to head back."

"Are you sure, man?" Ben said, glancing back at the house. "What about your date?"

John grunted and turned to leave. "Tell her she wears too much damn makeup."

Ben sniggered. "Don't get mugged, will you?" He called after John, who was already making his way up the street and back towards the school.

\--

Sherlock wasn't surprised that John had lost his temper. He was embarrassed and angry. Perhaps even confused. He was taking out that anger on an easy target. That was all it was.

Well, that was what he kept telling himself when that betraying flicker of hurt emerged inside his stomach. He wasn't offended, it wasn't quite _that_ irrational but there was a gnawing pang in his chest which stung from John's anger.

Surely it would subside. John wasn't the sort of person to hold grudges. Sherlock was certain of that. But then again, John kept surprising him with aspects of his personality that Sherlock had never dreamt could exist.

He finally sat back in his chair, pushing away the book he had barely been paying attention to. He could never have imagined that John, of all people in the entire _universe,_ could be gay. But Sherlock supposed the signs had been there. Why he had never mocked Sherlock's sexuality. Why he hated the derogatory gay slurs that his friends constantly made. Why he was so careful about what he revealed of himself.

Sherlock was ashamed and annoyed that he hadn't realised it sooner. It was stupid of him to miss it. He had been too lovesick to see it. Now he had successfully outed John in the most embarrassing, sloppy manner possible. No wonder John hated him.

He shook his head at himself and walked across to his bed, deciding that nothing but sleep would comfort him. He didn't know how he could make up his blunder to John, or if he ever could. John had just been beginning to trust him and Sherlock had thrown it all back in his face.

A loud, telltale thump from outside his door interrupted his thoughts. He stared at it, wondering if the boys had returned early from their drinking spree. There was another loud, low thump, this one right against his door and accompanied by the doorknob being turned. Well, not so much turned, as twisted violently again and again. Sherlock thought they might rip the doorknob right off if they kept handling it like that.

Grumbling, he walked across, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but stopped short on opening the door. It was John. Looking very pale and leaning heavily against the wall. He smelt faintly of cigarette smoke. Sherlock stared at him.

"What?" John slurred, swaying unsteadily where he stood. "You're not going ask me in? And here I thought you were a gentleman."

He was _incredibly_ drunk. Sherlock shook his head with a sigh.

"You're pissed," he said flatly, glancing down at John's stained shirt.

"Shut up," John mumbled, pushing him out of the way.

Sherlock was hardly going to leave him out in the hall like this, but he didn't look forward to bearing the brunt of John's drunken wrath. He closed the door and turned to find John sitting on his bed, his back rested against the wall. He turned his head and smiled at Sherlock. It still made Sherlock's stomach compress. Even when John was smashed.

"Well?" John said, gazing at Sherlock with a hazy expression. "What are you thinking? You know my big secret now. Are you going to punish me for being such a wanker to you? You could, you know. A lot of people would."

Sherlock was taken aback. "I don't think you're in the right state to be talking about things like that. You may say something you regret."

John laughed, getting to his knees with some difficulty. "Like what? I might say that... that..." he gave an unsteady wobble. "That I hate this fucking school. That I hate fucking football. And I _hate_ my fucking father."

The breath caught in Sherlock's throat. "Look," he said steadily. "I'm not the person you want to say all of this to. You should go back to your room and get some sleep."

To his surprise, John slid off of the bed and came so close to him that he could smell the beer on his breath. "What about if I don't want to go to my room?" He leant up and a spasm of shock went through Sherlock as John's lips came perilously close to his.

He could have so easily pressed his hand to John's back and kissed him. He could have kissed him deeply and desperately and touched every single inch of his body. But, he forced himself to step back. John looked achingly confused and a bit hurt.

"I'm a... Don't you see... I'm trying to..." he said uncertainly, staring at Sherlock with hazy blue eyes. "I'm attracted to you."

Sherlock heart stood still in his chest. "No, you're drunk and upset," he said, shaking his head slowly. "You'd kiss Mr. Hurst if you happened to stumble over him in the corridor."

"You clearly don't think very much of me if you think that's true," John mumbled, touching a hand to his head in a telltale sign that he was beginning to feel the effect of the profuse amount of alcohol he had consumed.

"You should lie down," Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. "You're not in any state to be running around, knocking on people's doors."

John nodded vaguely and, to Sherlock's dismay, went across to the unused bed opposite his and dropped down onto it. He lay on his back, turning his head to gaze at Sherlock. Sherlock watched him silently, his heartbeat sickeningly rapid.

"Do you find me disgusting?" John said quietly, his eyes closing partly.

"Why would I find you disgusting?" Sherlock breathed. He was conscious of the hardness between his legs, but doubted John would notice it in his current state.

"I'm... I'm..." John struggled with the words, though Sherlock didn't know whether it was because he was drunk or for a very different reason. "You know why."

Sherlock shook his head. "I would never find you, of all people, disgusting," he said quietly. "I could never feel anything for you but regard and admiration."

It was the truest statement he had ever made, but he doubted that John would remember it. In fact he wouldn't have said it if he had been anything less than certain that he wouldn't. John didn't reply, he closed his eyes and turned his head away from Sherlock.

Within minutes, his breathing had lengthened and his body had grown limp against the bed. Sherlock still hadn't moved or looked away. He felt rooted to the floor. His eyes roamed over John's sleeping figure. He looked slender and breakable and utterly vulnerable. His defences completely dissolved by the alcohol and sleep.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He knelt down by John's side and lowered his face to John's woollen pullover. He pressed his nose into the fabric. Past the stench of cigarettes and beer and deodorant was that raw, soft smell that was only John's. It filled his nostrils, his mouth, his mind. It was perfect. He leant back, watching the careful rise and fall of John's chest. He was perfect.

_ End of Chapter Seven _


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke to the unwelcome sound of the bell ringing to wake the boys for church. It was piercingly loud and rang so continuously that it was impossible to sleep through it. Even the boys who had been out all night usually dragged themselves out of bed and to the school's chapel where the weekly service was held. No one was exempt from church. It was the one thing that the school would not turn a blind eye to.

John sat up with some difficulty and stared around the unfamiliar room. His head was aching gently and his mouth tasted, frankly, disgusting but he'd woken up with worse.

His eyes paused at the bed opposite. The covers were thrown back and Sherlock's clothes from the night before were lying in a pile beneath. John had never been in Sherlock's room and if he had not been so confused and embarrassed to find himself in his current predicament, no doubt he would have taken advantage of this rare insight into Sherlock's jealously guarded territory.

But given the present situation between them, he hastily stood up and made his way to the door. He slipped out into the crowded corridor and managed to get back to his room more or less completely ignored. Billy was emerging from the depths of his bed like some monster of the deep, groaning and complaining incoherently about his hangover. Even if John hadn't had his own concerns to deal with, he doubted whether he would have felt much pity for him.

There was only ten minutes until church but he was resolved to have a shower. The showers would be empty now, everyone would be making their way to the chapel and he'd be alone. He didn't care if he was late. He just needed a few minutes to himself.

His could feel the nausea lurking at the edges of his stomach but he didn't think he was in danger of throwing up. It was the sort of nausea that could be controlled. He got a clean pair of clothes and made his way to the showers.

He tried to tell himself that it wasn't Sherlock's face he was looking for amongst the throngs of dishevelled, half-dressed boys but it was a stupid lie. He wasn't there anyway. Wherever he had escaped to, he was well away from where John could find him.

As intended, the showers were deserted. John went into the nearest cubicle and dumped his clean clothes on the bench fastened to the wall. It was so tiny and awkward that it mostly lost all of its convenience, especially after about ten boys had used it and it was covered in water and soap. Fortunately at this time of morning it was bone dry and fresh from being cleaned.

He was glad to get rid of his clothes. Not just because they were stained and stunk of other people's cigarettes, but because it felt like the humiliation of the past night's events were still clinging to the fabric.

He stepped under the hot water and sighed. The usual pleasure that a shower brought him after a night of partying was tempered by the images that kept replaying themselves in his head. Everything was so foggy and yet so painfully clear. For once he wished he could just forget whatever stupid crap he had done while drunk.

"Fuck it all," he breathed, resting his forehead against the wall.

He didn't know how he could ever face Sherlock again. Not after all the stupid things he had said, the stupid things he had  _done_. Oh God. The things he had done... He groaned into the tiles and turned onto his back.

When he got back to his room, the corridors was empty. He hastily dumped his dirty clothes on his bed and made his way to the chapel. It was the oldest part of the school, located in the very centre. Everything had been built around it. It was large enough to comfortably hold all 500 odd students but mostly its size was suggested by the huge domed ceiling and the balconies that lined all of the walls. It wasn't old, but the school liked to pretend that it was more than a mere century old.

John walked through the doors and closed them as quietly as he could, but the sound still echoed loudly enough to attract the attention of the three back rows and then gradually the rest of the chapel. And then finally, Father Theobald. He was not the sort of man who liked to be interrupted. In fact, giving his weekly sermon seemed to be the greatest pleasure in his life and the mere act of coughing at the wrong moment was a source of irritation to him.

"Mr. Watson," he boomed, his sour expression obvious even from 200 feet away. "If you would kindly take a seat."

John mumbled an apology that he knew Theobald wouldn't be able to hear and glanced around fruitlessly for an empty seat. There was a titter from amongst the crowd. Theobald glared at the perpetrator.

"There is a seat in the front row, Watson," Theobald barked, jerking his head at the nearest pew. "I suggest you take it."

John hurried down the aisle towards it, hating the sensation of having every single pair of eyes in the building fixed on him. He reached it and found that it was almost empty except for a group of grade eighters huddled together at the very end of the pew. And Sherlock Holmes.

John hesitated. Of course Sherlock would have been sitting alone. When did he not? And the front row seemed to be his location of choice. John could feel Father Theobald staring at him with increasing irritation so he cut his losses and sat, on the very edge of his seat so he was as far from Sherlock as humanely possible without falling into the aisle.

"As I was saying," Theobald said, sending John a nasty look.

John doubted whether he was going to hear a word of the sermon, when out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock just inches from him. His neck and cheeks were burning. He hoped Sherlock didn't notice his discomfort, but that seemed a rather futile hope. Sherlock was far too observant to miss it.

The service was just forty-five minutes but it felt torturously long to John. He couldn't bear to move on the bench. It felt like every breath he took and every slight movement he made exposed something of himself to Sherlock. Sherlock probably already knew everything.

John's insides contracted. He stared at a chip in the stone floor, desperate for the pang of hurt that threatened to linger inside of him to fade. He had never felt so confused, so uncomfortable or so desperate for Father Theobald's sermon on the virtues of humility to just  _end_.

Finally, they said their prayers and were blessed and told to go in peace. John waited on the bench, wanting to be the last to leave so he could escape somewhere and try and recover his dignity. But unfortunately he wasn't the only one who stayed behind.

He knew Sherlock was still beside him. He could feel his presence, though he was staring determinedly off in the opposite direction. Sherlock was waiting for him and John dreaded being left alone with him. He contemplated leaving, but he didn't think he could move. He felt paralysed and he could barely take his eyes off the chip in the stone.

He heard the doors swing shut and there was silence, the low roar of voices had moved outside and when he glanced up at the balcony, he saw that the teachers had disappeared too. Father Theobald had retreated to his office.

John stood, still unable to bring himself to look at Sherlock. "What do you want?" he said, wincing at the weakness to his voice.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Sherlock replied, calm and unemotional as always.

"I'm fine," John said through gritted teeth, very much aware that everything from his voice to his posture suggested otherwise. "You didn't have to leave me in your room. I didn't mean to inconvenience you."

" _Inconvenience_  me?" Sherlock said amusedly. "You really are a student right out of the high school for the emotionally repressed."

"What do you want me to say?" John snapped. " _I'm sorry I got drunk and passed out in your room_?"

"That would be a start," Sherlock said drily. "Looking at me would be a nice touch too."

John jerked his head towards him, feeling so awkward he could hardly breathe. Sherlock looked ruffled and tired. His clothes were uncharacteristically wrinkled. "You look worse than I do," he said wryly.

Sherlock laughed. "You weren't complaining last night."

John felt the colour drain from his face. "I should have known you would act like this," he breathed indignantly.

He turned to storm out but Sherlock's voice stopped him in his tracks. "You are too predictable," he said in a less than gentle tone. "You are so desperate to maintain this laughable notion you hold that you have to suffer in silence for some unknowable greater good."

John furiously spun to face him. "What the hell are you getting at?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a completely humourless laugh. "No one cares if you're gay, John," he said sarcastically. "We don't string up sodomites anymore. In fact in some quarters I've heard a strange notion that it's actually considered quite  _normal_ , but of course that might be too radical for your small mind."

"I am not..." John glanced around and lowered his voice to a bare hiss, " _gay_."

"Excuse me for being sceptical," Sherlock said archly, "but certain evidence speaks otherwise."

"Why the hell do you care?" John demanded furiously.

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes unsettlingly shrewd. "Are you really so dull as to need an answer to that question?"

John blinked confusedly at him. "What are you talking about?" he snapped. "I'm sorry that I don't live up to your mighty expectations but some of us mere mortals do happen to have imperfections."

Sherlock stood up with an impatient tut. "You're either in denial or you are  _completely_  stupid, I don't know which one is worse-"

"Excuse me! I am not the one who is acting completely irrationally here!" John retorted, conscious of how tightly his fists were balled. "I was trying to apologise-"

"By denying anything ever happened," Sherlock said sourly, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Nothing did happen!" John burst out in frustration.

"Excuse me!"

The two boys froze at the sound of Father Theobald's indignant voice. John peered up sheepishly at the pulpit. Father Theobald glowered down at him. He was still dressed in his vestment.

"What do you two think you're doing?" he said, looking between them. "This is no place for fighting!"

"I'm sorry, Father," John said hurriedly, glancing at Sherlock.

"You've caused enough trouble today, Mr. Watson," he said coldly. "I think you and Mr. Holmes can stay here and clean up the storage room. It's about time you boys learnt some respect for the chapel. It's not just a playground you can mess about in."

"But sir!" John protested. "We weren't fighting! We were just talking!"

He glared at Sherlock. Why wasn't he _helping_  him?

"Quiet," Theobald snapped. "You'll stay here until it gleams like the sun, you understand me? I don't care if it takes all day! Now get moving or I'll report you to your grade coordinator."

John stared at him in disbelief and then reluctantly turned and stalked towards the storage room at the far end of the chapel. It was always cluttered with unused pews, hymn books that were probably as old as the school, the cleaner's mops and buckets and various other useless things. There was a long, wide desk taking up the entire back wall and covered in old sheet music.

John looked over it in silent indignation.

"This is all your fault," he shot at Sherlock as he came in the door.

"How so?" Sherlock said placidly.

"You just stood there like an idiot and didn't say anything!" John burst out.

"There's nothing I could say that would change Father Theobald's mind when he's decided that there's a troublemaker in his chapel," Sherlock said, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. "And the fact that he doesn't like you doesn't help."

John scoffed. "He likes me fine. He's just pissed that I came in late."

"There you go again," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "You're so desperate to be approved of. Why would you  _want_  Father Theobald to like you? He's a sanctimonious prig who recites the same five sermons over and over. Charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. Charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. Charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. You'd think he'd just tell us we're all going to hell and be done with it, because there is certainly none of  _that_ in this school."

"I was trying to get us out of trouble, not suck up," John said, nudging a mouldy mop head with his foot. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend all day stuck in here."

"You mean stuck in here... with me," Sherlock said coldly.

"No, that isn't what I meant," John retorted. "But maybe it would be best if we spent less time with each other. We're clearly not good for each other." He didn't know when he had ever said something that he had meant less.

Sherlock shrugged and looked away. "If that's really how you feel. After this we never have to talk to each other again if we don't want to."

"What about the play?" John said sharply.

"I don't care about the damned  _play_ ," Sherlock spat with an amount of venom that took John aback.

"That's a lie," he said stubbornly. "You've put as much work into it as me."

Sherlock sent him a withering look. "Are you really this obtuse? Why do you think I even looked twice at that stupid thing?"

John bristled. "It is not stupid!"

"Why do you think I allowed you, of all people, into  _my_  life?" Sherlock said loudly, his eyes uncomfortably fixed on him.

John shook his head, confusion and frustration and anger merging together in one frenetic ball inside of him. He didn't know what he had wanted Sherlock to say, but this felt wildly off the mark. His head was beginning to throb again.

"What are you talking about?" he said hoarsely, staring at Sherlock with every limb tingling.

"You really are phenomenally stupid," Sherlock said sourly. "All this time I thought you were different from those other idiots, but maybe you really are just like them."

"You don't know the first thing about me!" John said angrily. "You think I invaded  _your_  life? That's bloody rich!"

"Oh, please," Sherlock snapped, his eyes flashing. "So I found your stupid magazine. So what? You need to get over yourself."

"You don't know the first thing about me," John breathed again.

"I know you better than you know yourself," Sherlock said, straightening up and taking a step towards him. "I always will."

John jerked back, feeling bewildered. "You're an idiot," he spat, turning away.

He felt Sherlock's hand grip his wrist. He tried to yank himself free but Sherlock's grip was surprisingly strong. He pulled him roughly around to face him. John's feeling of being paralysed was returning.

Panic and shock jolted through him as Sherlock raised a hand and touched his cheek. His fingers were cold and smooth, one of them slid down and touched his lips. The look on Sherlock's face became mingled with something approaching desperation as his fingertips came into contact with John's mouth. But a moment later it had vanished.

"What... are you..." John managed to stammer, while the muscles in his mouth seemed to be rapidly shutting down.

One of Sherlock's hands suddenly tightened around the nape of his neck and painfully forced him forward. A split second later, John's mouth came abruptly into contact with Sherlock's. Inside of him it was as though every emotion he had felt in the last few months was being released like something wild captured in a jar.

Sherlock's mouth moved almost aggressively over his, violently bruising his lips. John didn't know if he was reciprocating or not. He felt frozen with shock.

Sherlock's hands clamped around his waist and fingers curled into the fabric of his woollen pullover, forcing him harder against him and seeming not to care whether he was hurting him or not. John's hands had somehow found their way into Sherlock's hair and he was clinging so hard to him that he was sure it must have been painful. Even if it was, Sherlock did not complain.

He spun them both around and forced John against the desk that just moments ago Sherlock had been leaning against. John felt the desk forced painfully into the soft flesh beneath his hips, but the pain barely registered. John didn't think he could have possibly been pressed any closer to Sherlock, but Sherlock seemed to want to pull him harder and harder against him until he could hardly breathe.

Sherlock forced his mouth open and pressed his tongue inside, running it along the line of John's bottom lip. John shuddered violently. He felt Sherlock's tongue touch his and his eyes flickered open. A voice in his mind was screaming for him to stop, but he couldn't.

Only when he was desperate for air did he tear his mouth from Sherlock's and lean back. His body felt hot, his clothes were sticking to him and he could taste Sherlock in his mouth. He couldn't quite name the taste but it was there, on his tongue, on his lips, in his saliva. Sherlock reluctantly loosened his grip.

He couldn't speak. He didn't know what to say and his mouth didn't seem to want to form words. Sherlock's pallid complexion was flushed pink and his hair was sticking up from where John's fingers had attacked it. John could feel that he was straining against the confines of his tapered jeans. His mind was a confused fog.

Sherlock leant forward so that his mouth was just inches from John's ear. His shuddery breath sent goosebumps coursing down his neck. "You don't know how long I've waited-"

His words were cut off by the screech of the heavy storage room door opening. John shoved him away with all his might, staring at the door in panic and trying to blink the arousal out of his eyes. Father Theobald frowned between them, his wrinkled forehead furrowed so deep it looked like a small canyon had formed on his face.

"Fighting again!" he said in a tone of outrage. "In my store room!"

John didn't dare move. He could feel he was hard and the terror of Father Theobald's shrivelled, old blue eyes seeing it was nothing short of intense. Sherlock was breathing like he'd just outrun a bull but otherwise he looked calm. John didn't know how anyone with their clothes skewed to that extent could appear so content.

"Sorry, sir," John gasped.

"You," Father Theobald jerked his head at Sherlock, "get out and collect up the hymn books. That should keep you out of trouble for a few minutes."

He held the door open for Sherlock. Sherlock glanced back at John with an unreadable expression and then did as he was told. The door slammed behind him and John was alone.

_End of Chapter Eight_


	9. Chapter 9

John arrived back at his room sometime before lunch. He had endured an hour and a half of shifting hymn books and trying to collect all of the numerous piles of music sheets together and had then deserted his post. He didn't care what Father Theobald had to say about it. He would probably tell Mr. Blake and John would have to wash up for a couple of nights, but that was preferable than being stuck in the chapel storage room all day.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Billy demanded almost as soon as he opened the door. "You keep disappearing every five minutes."

"Father Theobald wasn't too pleased about me being late for church," John muttered, dropping down onto his bed and resting his head in his hands.

"Are you serious?" Billy said, raising his thick eyebrows. "What a douche."

"So how late did you guys end up staying out?" John asked, not wanting to hear anything more about the chapel or Father Theobald.

Billy sniggered and stretched across the bed, very much resembling a gorilla sunning itself. "Aw, well. I was back around two." He paused, with a wide grin. "I think. Can't be sure. Ben came back with me. Marty disappeared off with some bird. I reckon that dickhead got lucky again."

"Ha," John said, hardly listening to a word he was saying. "Good old Marty."

"And where the hell did you get to?" Billy said. "You end up on someone's floor or something?"

"Oh, yeah," John said, jerking upright. He knew that he turned bright red when he was lying, but he also knew that Billy was too thick to make that connection. "You won't believe it. I woke up on Holmes's floor. It was the weirdest shit."

Billy snorted. "Fuck! How the hell did you even- What did the bastard say? God, I would have paid to see that."

John forced a grin. "Yeah, pretty funny. He wasn't there when I woke up. He must have bolted."

"I wouldn't trust him while I was unconscious," Billy said in a low voice. "The guy's a flaming fag."

John's throat felt like it was clogged with dry, tacky saliva. He needed to cough, but he didn't dare do anything that might suggest he was reacting to Billy's words. "Yeah," he almost choked. "I guess."

"He'll get fucked up one of these days if he isn't careful," Billy yawned, kicking his shoes off the end of the bed.

John stood up, he felt his knees buckle. "I'm going to go for a walk."

"Whatever," Billy said, not looking at him. "If you happen to see Marty, tell him from me that he's a grade A cunt."

"I will," John muttered and hastily quitted the room.

He needed to find Holmes. Sherlock. His name was Sherlock. Not  _Holmes_.

He gingerly touched his lips and glanced up and down the corridor. There were a few students milling about but none of them were Sherlock. He hadn't seen him when he'd left the chapel. God knew where he had gone.

He walked down to Sherlock's door and, with a quick glance around him, knocked. There was no response. John didn't dare call out and risk drawing attention to himself.

He walked down to the grounds instead, though he doubted Sherlock would be out there. He took an umbrella from the teacher's cloakroom and made his way down to the main playing field.

As far as the eye could see there were green fields and grey sky. John never felt as isolated as when he stared out and saw all of that foggy greenness around him.

His parents lived some distance away. It took them two or three hours to drive there. That was why they only ever made the journey for a couple of the games. His father would have come to all of the games and all of the training practices if he could, but luckily his job was too demanding for that.

His sister rarely came. He still didn't understand why she had bothered coming to his first game. To pressure him into things he didn't want to do, it seemed. And that  _stupid_  magazine. He hadn't replied to any of her texts since that incident. He had nothing to say to her. He was beyond pissed.

He turned and stared back at the school. It was a substantial and not unattractive red brick building. The bits that had been built on in the 1970s and 1980s were the most unattractive parts, made of a sort of greyish type of cement.

He felt himself wondering where Sherlock was again. He couldn't help it. He felt he deserved an explanation after what Sherlock had done to him. His mouth still stung from the force of the... kiss. That word didn't seem to aptly describe what had happened. It felt more like an assault. Sherlock's fingers had left bruises on his skin from how roughly he had been holding him and how hard he had shoved him against the desk. He had treated him like he was his property, like John owed him something.

John hated himself for having gotten an erection. He hated that Sherlock had felt it and known that it was for him.

John clenched his fists. He could hardly stand the feelings that Sherlock had awoken. They niggled at him, filling him with self-doubt and intense frustration.

He hadn't even reached the boundary fence but he turned and began walking back towards the school, as quickly as the muddy grass would allow him.

\--

Sherlock wasn't reading. He couldn't get past three words before his mind went pleasantly blank and whatever Dr. Kalpana Inderjit was saying about violent crime became a blur of unrecognisable words. He was the only student in the library but had still opted to sit in his favourite hidden nook in the very corner. He didn't want the librarians staring at him while he was trying to think.

He had never had this much trouble trying to organise his thoughts into a coherent row. Whatever the state of his physical body, he had always been able to rely on his mind but it felt like they had melted into an impenetrable mess. A giant melding of lust- God  _such_  lust- and frustration. And terror.

He slammed his book shut and sat back in his chair. He had probably made the biggest mistake of his life. He had allowed intuition to overtake cold, hard facts. What if he had misread what he had  _felt_? He had never had problems misreading what he s _aw_ , but this had been different. He had felt John's desire, rather than seen it.

That was one thing that he hadn't yet mastered. He couldn't tell if people lusted for another person. It manifested itself in so many ways. Anger, revulsion, fear, confusion. How could he possibly know for certain that John wanted him?

However, he knew that kissing John had had little to do with what he thought John wanted. It had everything to do with his being no longer able to control himself. John was an idiot if he thought that Sherlock could physically take him  _throwing_  himself at him and then playing dumb about the whole episode. He was crazy, as well as stupid.

Sherlock knew he wasn't being fair but he was in no mood to be fair. Especially to John Watson, who's body he'd had pinned to a  _desk_  just two hours ago.

He let out a frustrated growl. Sweet, unassuming, boy-next-door John Watson. It seemed like a crime to want to fuck him quite as badly as Sherlock wanted to.

He stood up, stuffing the book back into his bag and swinging into his shoulder. There was no sense in trying to direct his thoughts elsewhere. They were clearly determined to fix themselves on John and it would be just as depressing brooding about him in his room as it was here.

He turned to leave and, through the gaps of the bookcases, saw a flash of blonde hair and a slim figure that he recognised only too well. He waited where he was. Well, it was going to come. Here was as good as anywhere to face John's humiliated wrath.

John rounded the corner and stopped short. His blue eyes were narrowed, his fists were balled up and the thought that he might punch him across the face did cross Sherlock's mind.

"You," he said instead, sounding incredibly out of breath and increasing the probability of Sherlock's getting an inappropriate hard-on by about 70%.

"Me?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"How dare you pull that shit with me!" John hissed, glancing around him, as though there was even the smallest shred of a chance that someone would overhear them in the uninhabited mass of the library.

"What shit, precisely, did I pull?" Sherlock said archly, taking solace in his ability to deflect John's fury with his seeming indifference.

John flushed beautifully and Sherlock could almost have laughed, had he not been so annoyed. "I'm not fucking queer!" he spat. "Get that through your head!"

"Nobody said you were," Sherlock replied coldly, his amusement dissipating rapidly. "Is that all?"

John stared at him, his chest still rising and falling a little harder than what was natural. "Why?" he said.

"Why what?" Sherlock snapped.

"Why did you..." John faltered, rolling the words around in his mouth. "Why did you kiss me?"

Sherlock had known John's natural frankness and lack of pretence would win the fight against the equally natural urge to lie to himself. "Because I..." Sherlock didn't know how to word it. "Like you" made him sound like he was ten. Want you? Need you? Want to fuck you until you can't walk? Well, that was the most accurate phrase, but also the one most likely to get him physically injured. "I..."

He couldn't. Just when he needed the words most, they had deserted him. He shook his head and turned away. Suddenly the brilliance of John's blue eyes when he was angry was unbearable.

"I don't understand you," John said. There was no anger in his voice now. He sounded helpless. He truly didn't understand how deeply Sherlock felt for him. It was maddening. "You could have had me when I was drunk. I wouldn't have put up a fight."

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "You demand everybody's esteem and then you are so suspicious and critical of everyone else. You truly think that I would do something so low-"

"No!" John burst out. "Of course not. I just... I just..." He exhaled. "I... don't understand."

"That's the problem with your crowd," Sherlock said, risking a glance at him. "You don't seem to understand attraction unless it's sexual."

"You're attracted to me?" John croaked.

Sherlock heard the creak of a floorboard as John jerked back. "It's ok," he said sharply. "I won't force myself on you. I'm not the depraved maniac that you seem to think I am."

"I don't think that," John said furiously, taking a step forward again. "God, Sherlock! You're more intelligent than any person I've ever known. You seem to have everyone figured out. How do you think that makes me feel? I feel like a moron most of the time. How the hell would someone like you ever, in a million years feel attracted to me? I'm less than average."

Sherlock finally looked at him. He saw no lies, no falseness in John's face. It was, as it always was, as frank as a child's. "Are you that blind to your own charms? Well, I'm not going to stand here and recite them to you. You don't need your vanity stoked any higher than it already is."

"What have I got to be vain about?" John said bitterly. "My winning personality? People only give two shits about me because I can play fucking football. My own father only gives two shits about me because I can-"

He broke off, shaking his head.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Sherlock sunk back down into his chair with a sigh. He didn't know how to tell John just much he admired him without humiliating himself and John. Caring about another human being was beyond anything he had felt, caring this deeply about another human being was almost unbearable.

"You have no idea of what you have," Sherlock said quietly. "You're better than those other bastards put together. With or without football."

John was silent. Sherlock looked at him. Distrust and desperation were fighting for dominance on his face.

"You don't trust me," Sherlock said wryly. "I don't suppose you have any reason to. But if I may just ask one question, who exactly in this school can you trust? Do you think those friends of yours will stand by you if worse comes to worst?"

John stared at him. He opened his mouth and then abruptly closed it. Sherlock didn't know what he expected him to do, but turning and walking away hadn't been top of the list of possibilities.

He listened to John's footsteps cross back to the door. It wasn't like John to run away. He must have had an excellent reason to. Sherlock just wished he knew what it was.

\--

Dinner was a miserable affair. John had to have dinner with the team to discuss their training schedule and he found it an impossible task to sit there without giving into the temptation to look around the cafeteria for a glimpse of Sherlock's dark hair.

He clearly wasn't there. He was probably still in the library or in his room. Stuck in some book. He probably didn't even care that everything he said had been like a wound inflicted to John's skin. John had gone to speak to Sherlock for answers and had ended up more confused than when he had found him.

"Hey! Johno! You listening?"

John jerked around. "Yeah. Yeah," he said, without having any idea of who had spoken.

If the team thought his behaviour was strange they didn't say anything.

"So," Marty said, glancing at Billy with eyebrows raised. "You got anything to share with the class, Mr. Watson?"

John's heart stood still in his chest. Someone had overheard them in the library. His blood went cold.

"Wh-what?" he stammered blankly.

Marty smirked. "A little bird tells me that our little captain got some last night."

The other boys guffawed. One of them gave John a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. John coloured. "She wasn't anything special."

"Don't be so modest," Ben grinned. "She was wet for you."

"Fuck off," John snapped.

"Ooh!" Marty crowed. "We've offended him! I didn't realise you were so _sensitive_."

John forced himself to stay calm. He couldn't lose it. Not here. It felt like every muscle in his face shuddered with the effort of smiling. "Look. She was ok. But I was drunk. She could have looked like Frankenstein and I'd probably still have got off with her."

Ben laughed, sending him a strange look that John didn't entirely like. "Whatever. We better get back down to business or we'll be here all night."

John didn't hear a word that was said after that. They finished at seven and almost all of them decided to go to the common room to catch whatever was on television. John shrugged off their attempts to coax him hither, and instead made plans of his own.

He waited until they were out of sight and then began his way back to the dormitories.

Listening to his team talk had been unbearable. Their vulgarity and immaturity had struck him more heavily than usual.

He walked past his room and past five or six other doors until he reached number 22. He paused outside of it. The corridor was empty. He could go inside and no one would know. He just had to have to courage to knock.

He raised his hand and, almost without meaning to, quickly glanced around. Without waiting for his brain to catch up with his body, he knocked. He waited. There was absolute silence and no one came to the door. He knocked a bit harder. Still nothing.

As a last resort he put his mouth close to the door. "Sherlock, it's me," he said as quietly as he could while still being heard.

There was a pause and then, almost immediately, footsteps approached the door. John was almost taken aback to be faced so suddenly by Sherlock, but he managed to hide his alarm. Sherlock looked at him silently and then stepped back.

John stepped awkwardly inside and heard Sherlock close it behind him. He glanced around the room. It was exactly as he had left it that morning. Sherlock's clothes were still in a pile below his bed. There was a new heap of books added to his already overcrowded desk. His laptop was almost swallowed by the massive pile of volumes.

The covers of the bed he had slept on the night before were still impressed from where he had lain on it. It sent the blood rushing to his cheeks.

Sherlock went across to his bed, apparently folding clothes, though John wasn't certain he really was. On his bedside table was a lamp, his phone, a packet of  _Pall Mall_  cigarettes and a watch.

"How many packets do you smoke a day?" John asked, not intending to break the silence that way but overtaken by his curiosity.

Sherlock stopped and turned to him, still holding a pair of blue boxers. "One. At most," he replied, almost without hesitation. "I have no reliance on them. They aid me when I need them. When I need mental clarity."

"Cigarettes can't help your mental state," John said critically, knowing how naive he sounded but not caring. "They're filth."

"Who is it?" Sherlock said drily, dropping the boxers onto the chair beside the bed and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

John glanced away. Sherlock's gaze felt like it was burning straight through him. "What?"

"Who is it that smokes in your family?" Sherlock prompted him.

John hesitated. No doubt Sherlock would make a big deal of whatever he said. Make it out like he had a problem with his family. He was like a walking psychiatry textbook. "My father. And my sister apparently."

"You have a sister?" Sherlock said, sounding surprised.

"Yeah," John replied, not eager to enter this sort of discussion tonight. "Older than me by five years. She's in university."

"I have an older brother," Sherlock said in a very dry tone. "He's seven years my senior."

"What does he do?" John asked, venturing to take a seat on the bed he had been splayed unconscious on hours beforehand.

"I hardly know," Sherlock replied shortly.

John raised his eyebrows. "Sibling rivalry?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't try and profile me, John. You're not any good at it."

"Oh, of course," John said acidly. "Because no one is as clever as you."

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock said wryly, and it was difficult to tell if he was joking or not.

John stared around his bare walls. There was a strange lack of posters. John was used to the girly centrefolds and football teams that decorated most of the other boys' rooms. It made Sherlock's room look strangely empty. He didn't seem to have applied any personal touches to his room. There were no photos, magazines, personal items like moisturiser or cologne or, God forbid, stuffed toys.

"You keep a very clean room," he said.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. "Why are you here?" He had apparently seen straight through John's attempt to stall him.

"I-" John broke off. He didn't quite know why he was there. Actually... yes, he did.

He stood up. He forced himself to look at Sherlock. It was like staring into the sun and the desire to look away was immense, but even as he felt himself flush he kept his eyes on Sherlock's. Sherlock's expression was blank. Most of the time it was beyond impossible to tell what he really felt and it made John's position even more intimidating.

His heart was fluttering uncontrollably; his pulse seemed to be getting faster and faster as he found himself more or less face to face with Sherlock. Sherlock's skin was so pale and his eyes were so dark. It was impossible for anyone to be so lovely and so unreachable at the same time.

He knelt carefully on the bed and felt the inside of his thigh press against the outside of Sherlock's. Sherlock's hands touched his waist and he knew that this was what he wanted. John leant down and Sherlock arched his back ever so slightly and their lips met.

John gently pushed Sherlock back until he was resting against the wall and straddled his waist. He was terrified of hurting him but Sherlock made no sign that he was anything but incredibly aroused. John could feel Sherlock straining through his trousers again. It made him colour with embarrassment to think that it was for  _him_ , but he somehow managed not to squirm when he felt Sherlock's erection slide between his thighs.

He moaned lightly, rolling his hips forward without being fully conscious of it. Their mouths, which had been so violent and brash in the chapel, now seemed to have melted together. Sherlock was being so gentle that John almost wanted to force his mouth open and take the liberty himself of putting his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, but he didn't quite dare to.

He hadn't ever felt anything like this. All of the sex education, all of the trashy magazines and hearsay couldn't possibly have prepared him for what being with another person truly meant. He felt Sherlock's hands encircle his waist, treating him so softly this time after they had grasped him like an animal when they'd kissed the first time. He felt Sherlock spread his legs a little wider so that John was wedged on his hips. The pressure created by his tight jeans and Sherlock's crotch being crammed so hard against his was unbearable.

Sherlock finally could no longer resist the temptation and plied John's mouth open, slowly snaking his tongue inside. John gasped, his mouth opening wider for Sherlock. He tentatively ventured forward to touch Sherlock's tongue with his. Sherlock's mouth tasted so familiar. Mingled with the smell of their entwined bodies, it was exactly what John had imagined it would be like.

He realised Sherlock's grip had tightened on his waist and he was urging him back. John thought for a moment in dismay that Sherlock wanted to break away, but instead he found himself being guided down onto his back, while their mouths never parted for a moment. Sherlock laid on top of him, sliding a knee down between his thighs and teasingly touching the growing mound between John's legs.

John thought he should feel vulnerable lying on his back, completely at the mercy of a taller boy but he didn't. He trusted Sherlock more than anyone else he had met in his life.

John slid his arms around Sherlock's waist and pinned him harder against him. Sherlock took this as a sign that he wanted it rougher and the kiss that had been so careful and gentle until now, suddenly heated up. Sherlock licked the inside of his bottom lip and bit gently on it every time the kiss deepened. It sent electric shivers up John's spine and he had to control himself not to tell Sherlock to bite harder. He felt like a kinky bastard for liking it so much.

But it was nothing to what he felt when Sherlock's lips suddenly left his and lowered to the far more sensitive skin on his neck. He let out a shuddery gasp and clutched the back of Sherlock's hair, trying not to grip too tightly. Sherlock clearly knew he liked to be bitten. He must have picked it up from his body language when he'd been experimenting with his mouth because he was using the same technique on John's neck, and  _fuck_  it felt so damn good.

When he couldn't hold it back anymore, he moaned. He blushed to hear the needy sound leave his mouth but it seemed to intensify Sherlock's excitement and he heatedly licked up the edge of John's neck, making him shiver all over.

Sherlock leant back. He was pinker than John had ever seen him and his hair looked pleasantly ruffled. He supposed that he looked far worse.

"You surprise me," Sherlock said archly.

"How?" John said hoarsely, unwilling to release Sherlock's torso.

"I thought you would be more experienced than this," Sherlock said.

John coloured and turned away. "I'm not that inexperienced."

Sherlock touched his forehead. His hand was a bit damp. "Your level of responsiveness is very unusual in someone with a lot of experience." He paused. "Unless you were faking it." He raised an eyebrow. "Which I have to say I doubt."

John squirmed beneath him on the mattress. "What is this?" he grumbled. "An interrogation? So I'm not experienced. Does that matter to you?"

Sherlock's facial expression immediately changed. "God no," he said. "Seeing you like this makes me want to-"

John choked. "I get the point!"

Sherlock smirked. "Poor little prude," he said in a muffled tone, lowering his mouth back to John's neck.

"Sher-" John arched his back with a mixture of what sounded like a hiccup and a gasp. " _God_."

Sherlock sniggered into his skin, triggering goosebumps over every inch of his arms.

"Sherlock!" John said reproachfully, trying to control his facial features when they seemed to want to adopt an ongoing expression of open-mouthed incapacitation.

To his surprise, and slight disappointment, Sherlock raised his head again. Though he looked far too pleased with himself.

"This is all very pleasant," John said, adopting as much dignity as he could whilst pinned to a bed on his back. "But don't you think we should discuss this?"

"Discuss what?" Sherlock replied, his eyes roaming over John's face.

"Can you stop thinking about your cock for three seconds?" John said flatly, nudging Sherlock off of him.

He was incredibly sorry to lose Sherlock's warm weight on top of him, but he wasn't going to clumsily blunder into a situation like this.

"We need to talk about this seriously," John said.

"What is  _this_  exactly?" Sherlock said testily, kneeling opposite John on the bed. "A few hours ago you weren't gay."

John blushed. "Well... you have to understand-"

"I understand perfectly," Sherlock said. "You're repressed."

"I am not repressed!" John spluttered.

"Of course you are. With your secret porno magazines and your-"

" _That_  was my sister's idea of a joke," John bristled. "She bought it for me! You think I'd be that dumb? In this school?"

"Yeah, sure," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Your  _sister_  bought it for you. Right."

"It's true!" John burst out.

Sherlock gave him a sideways smirk, but didn't remark.

John flattened his hair and tried to straighten his clothes, all while attempting to obscure the bulge between his legs. No doubt Sherlock was already more than aware of it, but for once he chose to be gracious and pretend that he hadn't noticed.

"Well, at least you're honest about one thing," he said, glancing at John grimly. "This school is about the homosexual's equivalent to death row. You know it's going to happen, you just don't know when."

"Know what's going to happen?" John asked.

"Public humiliation," Sherlock said frankly. "You know what will happen to you if they find out, don't you?"

John felt an anxious twinge but ignored it. "You were the one who told me that nobody cares if I'm gay," he said staunchly.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know whether this is an overabundance of goodwill or a serious lack of common sense, but you have to stop thinking that everyone is going to be your best friend just as long as you're good at football and can play along with their little game."

John angrily scoffed and got up from the bed. "I don't need lessons from you on social acceptance."

Sherlock stood and tugged him around to face him. "John, if they find out that you're gay, they will hurt you. No matter who you are or what you say. You have to promise me that you'll keep this secret no matter what happens."

John hated what Sherlock was saying, the thought of being an outcast chilled him to his very core. He gingerly met his eye. "And what precisely is this?"

"Whatever we want it to be," Sherlock replied unsmilingly, leaning down to kiss him again.

John let him, but now the pleasure was tempered by the thought that just a few feet away were people who would destroy them both if they knew what was going on behind that door.

_End of Chapter Nine_


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock's family never wrote to him. It was not his mother's inclination and his father, frankly, had nothing to say to him. He sometimes received an obligatory text from his brother, but he was perfectly content in having as little unnecessary contact with his family as possible.

But when he woke on Monday morning, with a vastly different sensation in his stomach to what that day usually invoked, he had the most bizarre and unexplainable urge to tell someone of his successful seduction of John Watson. He knew it was not particularly gracious, but the stupid happiness which bubbled inside of him had no notion of grace or humility.

He lay in bed for ten minutes longer than what was sensible, replaying the night's events again and again in his mind. The memories were becoming warped from overuse. He couldn't help himself.

That John would shrug off the grasping hand of his deepest doubts and anxieties for  _him_  was almost beyond unthinkable. John was still confused and ashamed but, above all else, he was afraid. Sherlock was well aware of their position, but he could not feel the concern that John evidently did. He would, of course, keep their relationship, whatever that may be, a secret. But it was not entirely for John's benefit.

No. Sherlock's motive was tainted by selfishness. He wanted John to himself, and he didn't want to share him. Especially with the worthless creeps John called his "friends". They didn't deserve to breathe the same air as John, let alone inspire such trepidation in him. They were not so intelligent or so cunning that Sherlock thought them any real threat, unless John and he exposed themselves in the worst manner possible. That would be the only way that the notion of John being attracted to another boy could penetrate their thick skulls.

Sherlock rolled out from the warmth of the covers and dressed haphazardly into a clean uniform, which had materialized on his chair. He had no idea from where, because he couldn't remember doing any washing that weekend. The weekend had become a long stretch of rising and falling hope. It seemed like an age ago that he had stood on the football field and watched John run past him, completely oblivious to Sherlock's presence.

He ran a hand through his hair by way of combing it and glanced once into the mirror fastened to the door of the wardrobe.

He was seven minutes late to home class, which was the latest he had ever been. As though on cue, as soon as he pushed open the door there was a small explosion of jeers. Sherlock's eyes sought the back row and he saw John sitting like a trapped animal between Billy Pip's monstrous form and Marty Hester, contemptuous smirk firmly in place on his handsome face.

"You're late, Holmes!" he called, accidentally jostling against John as another boy attempted to snatch back his pencil case from Marty's tanned paw. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Hester had no idea just how unworthy he was of physical contact with John. "Late night? Partying it up? We all know what your idea of a good time is."

Marty's smirk widened at the sneers that followed. Sherlock looked at John. His face was ashen and his lips were extremely thin. Sherlock looked back at Marty, wondering how long it would be until one of them noticed the change in John's disposition.

"What business is it of yours?" Sherlock shot back at him.

Marty's surprise was evident. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John look at him.

Marty gave a short and not altogether convincing laugh. "Whatever, fag."

Sherlock saw John look away. He gritted his teeth. "Go fuck yourself, Hester."

The silence that fell was almost comical. Stunned eyes flickered towards Marty, all wondering what he would do. How he would react to this sudden rebellion.

Marty seemed too taken aback to react. He just stared at Sherlock, his eyes blank. Sherlock didn't dare look at John. He had succeeded in keeping everyone's attention away from John. That was all that mattered.

"You little cunt," Marty spat, standing up so quickly that Billy and Ben didn't have time to stop him.

"Leave it, mate!" Ben called after him. "He ain't worth it."

Marty came towards Sherlock like predator bearing down on a wounded animal, except Sherlock wasn't afraid of him. Marty may have been built like a bulldog and have all the physical advantages football had gifted him, but he was a coward. Sherlock knew it.

He heard a chair screech as Ben got up, clearly preparing himself to pull Marty off Sherlock if the worst happened. There were a few nervous titters, but no one seemed to be enjoying this turn of events. For all their big talk, his classmates' knew there was a difference between tormenting Sherlock and pitting him against a brute like Marty Hester.

Marty put his face close to Sherlock's. He stank of deodorant. He had layered it on far too thick and it stung Sherlock's nostrils and made him want to cough right into Marty's face. Marty's eyes were narrowed into slits.

"You wanna say that again, faggot?" Marty hissed, spraying Sherlock's face with saliva.

"You're pathetic," Sherlock said quietly.

Marty gave a short, almost erratic laugh over his shoulder towards the stunned class. No one laughed in return. "You sick little fuck," he breathed, turning back to Sherlock. "I know you want to fuck me. Just admit to it."

Sherlock came dangerously close to laughing. The look on Marty's face, the loathing and disgust and the vicious desperation that Sherlock realise his own defects was too ridiculous to hold any threat for him. He looked past Marty to where John was sitting, half in and half out of his chair. His nails were embedded in his desk he was gripping it so hard. No one was looking at him, everyone seemed mesmerized by the scene in front of them.

Sherlock looked down at Marty, and shrugged. "You're not my type-"

He jerked back as Marty's fist curled around the collar of his school shirt. It happened too quickly for Sherlock to distinguish much more than being shoved roughly backwards into a desk. He felt it slam against his hips but was barely aware of the pain.

"Hey!" came a shout from somewhere behind Marty.

Sherlock didn't attempt to pry Marty's hands off of him. He knew it would be fruitless. Marty's grip was too strong.

" _Hey_!" shouted the same voice and Sherlock realised it was Hurst.

He felt Marty's fingers jerk away from him like he had been stung. Sherlock stared past him to where Hurst was standing, one hand curled around Marty's forearm and staring at Sherlock with disbelief.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" he snapped. "I thought you were a bit old for this sort of crap!"

Marty wrenched himself from Hurst's grip, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock. "We were just talking," he said.

Sherlock ignored the silent threats Marty was making towards him. He had no intention of making trouble for John by making trouble for Marty. "Sorry, sir," he said calmly. "Just a lively discussion."

Hurst did not look convinced, but Sherlock didn't care what he thought. "Fine, if that's your story," he said testily, folding his arms. "Sit down. If I catch you fighting again, I'll put you in detention for a month."

Sherlock quickly took his seat. He could feel a roomful of eyes on him. He knew he had surprised them. They hadn't known just how little Sherlock heeded their slurs. He knew that he had made himself even more of a target now.

When home class was finally done, he took an especially long time packing away his things to avoid getting trapped in the hallway with Marty and his friends. When Marty passed his table, he swept his pencil case off the desk and onto the floor. A few pens rolled out across the floor. Marty gave a short laugh that was unaided by his usual chorus of supporters and went towards the door.

Sherlock knelt down to pick them up and almost collided with a flaxen head. He jerked back and found himself staring into John's face, as he scrambled to pick up Sherlock's fallen stationary.

"What were you thinking?" he breathed, glancing over his shoulder.

"I know it was risky," Sherlock replied, cramming his pens back into his pencil case. "We can't have them zoning in on you. They trust you. It's better for them to hate me for being a friendless fag than hate us both for being-"

He cut off. John stared at him. His forehead was crinkled with anxiety.

"We have to be careful," he said.

"I can't believe you did that," John said, standing up slowly. "I've never seen anyone talk to Marty like that before."

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "He's not so very intimidating. He's just loud and obnoxious."

John shook his head. "I have to get back." He glanced around again, clearly on edge. "Meet me in the library at lunch," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Without another word, he went towards the door. Sherlock took the unspoken hint and waited a few moments before following.

\--

It wasn't easy finding an excuse to get out of lunch with the team, but it was not something John regretted. Marty had done nothing but viciously badmouth Sherlock since they had left home class. It was the same meaningless cycle of "fag", "cunt", "bastard", "douchebag", "dickhead" over and over and over. Marty's fury was evident and no one chose to contradict him. In fact, everyone seemed keen to keep well away from him. Marty was hard to get along with at the best of times but when he was in a bad mood, he was positively sadistic.

Fortunately, everyone was too shell-shocked by the morning's drama to react much. Billy was the only one who joined in with Marty's relentless abuse. Ben seemed very grim indeed all day and said very little to anyone. The rest of the team watched Marty out of the corner of their eyes, exchanging glances and seeming generally unsure of how to react.

Sherlock had disappeared. John had no idea where. The whole episode had shaken him to his core. It felt like a terrible preview of what their lives would be like if anyone ever found out about them. John's skin crawled at the thought. It felt like everything he did was giving away a little bit more of his true self, the self that his teammates had never come into contact with. The boy they had never met.

He managed to shake them off at the cafeteria doors with a lame excuse about forgotten homework. No one made any attempt to contradict him and he slipped away unnoticed. The library was empty except for a smattering of students on the computers. He knew immediately where Sherlock would be and made his way to the familiar nook in the far corner where he had argued with Sherlock the day before.

He slipped behind it and sat down at the end of the table. His heart was beating so hard. He was anxious about seeing Sherlock. He didn't completely know why, but the morning's events had made him edgy.

He let his bag slide down onto the floor and leant on his arm, staring out of the window opposite. It was getting colder. The sky outside was grey. It would be Christmas in just a few weeks and the holidays would begin. John dreaded Christmas. As though the holidays with his family weren't punishment enough, they had to add carols.

"Hey."

He turned around quickly and found Sherlock watching him. His uniform was unusually wrinkled and he wasn't wearing his school jumper, despite the weather.

"Hi," John said, staring at him.

Sherlock sat down opposite him. He was flushed from the cold. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel fine," John said, a little testily. "I wasn't the one having punch ups in the classroom."

Sherlock lowered his eyes with a small smile. "It wasn't a punch-up."

"You provoked Marty Hester," John hissed, unable to stop himself. "Are you completely insane?"

"I can't have those charming friends of yours noticing any changes in your demeanour," Sherlock replied. "Better they intensify their hatred of me than begin to suspect that they have a shirtlifter in their midst."

The heat rushed to John's cheeks. "I'm not-"

He broke off. Sherlock smiled wryly at him from across the table, as though he knew exactly what he had been about to say.

He stared down at his hands on the table, no idea of what to say. He couldn't stop thinking about Marty. There seemed to be a shadow over them. Maybe he was just imagining it.

John glanced across the table to where Sherlock's pale, long fingers were rested on the table opposite his. He slid his own smaller, tanner hand across the shiny plastic surface and touched Sherlock's. Sherlock looked quickly at him. John's breath caught in his throat. He thought for a moment that he had overstepped the line, but a moment later Sherlock opened his palm and threaded his long fingers through John's.

John gave a shiver in his seat. He didn't know why, but that simple act seemed so sensual. He leant forward slightly and thankfully Sherlock too the hint. He rose out of his chair partly and bent over the table towards John. Before John could react, Sherlock had pressed his lips against his.

Sherlock cupped a hand to the back of his hair, gripping it and pulling him harder and deeper against his lips. John was aware that they were in a public place, with students sitting just a few feet away from them but somehow that only made it all the more arousing.

He edged forward in his seat, gently opening Sherlock's lips wider apart and pushing his tongue inside. He felt Sherlock's hand tighten around his neck. Sherlock emitted a strained, breathy sound that John had never heard uttered by his usually well-controlled mouth. He felt the place between his legs give a twinge.

All too soon, Sherlock broke apart. He was panting.

"Come back to my room," he breathed into John's ear, making him shiver. "We can skive off and..."

He leant forward and planted a brief, firm kiss on John's lips. John glanced over his shoulder. The bell had just rung for class.

"We shouldn't," John said, though he didn't extract himself from Sherlock's grasp. "They might notice."

"They won't," Sherlock said softly, grazing the rim of John's ear with his lips.

John thought about what the remainder of his day would entail if he didn't go with Sherlock. Three and a half hours more of Marty bitching and everyone else too on edge even to piss. It was not an inviting thought.

"Alright," he said."Let's go."

They got back to the dormitories without meeting anyone and slipped into Sherlock's room. Sherlock locked the door behind him and shed his bag. John did the same. He was warding off a sense of awkwardness that he hadn't yet managed to shrug off when he was in Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock," he said, staring around the room. "Where are you going for the holidays?"

Sherlock glanced at him from the bed. "Home?"

"Oh," John said, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I thought maybe you... Well, never mind."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "And where, may I ask, will you be going?"

"Home," John replied shortly, not eager to enter a discussion in which everything he said would be used as some sort of evidence against him.

To silence whatever inferences Sherlock was about to make, he joined him on the bed and, though almost paralysed with self-consciousness, straddled Sherlock's lap. The material of their school trousers was very thin and soft and the firm mound between Sherlock's legs was extremely obvious. He could feel his own body responding. The most embarrassing side-effects were his nipples, which had hardened into two firm nubs and the hairs on his arms, which were standing on end.

Sherlock encircled his waist with his hands and kissed his neck, his lips damp against John's clammy skin. John tilted his head, unable to constrain his whimper when Sherlock's mouth came into contact with the place below his chin, which had always been a hypersensitive spot for him.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, words almost failing him as Sherlock's teeth gently nipped at his skin.

"Why would you be?" Sherlock said softly, his mouth vibrating against John's Adam's apple.

"I... I'm not...doing anything," John panted.

Sherlock laughed in a manner that clearly indicated that he didn't mind.

John was glad. He didn't feel ready to touch Sherlock yet. He had touched others. Girls. He knew that they liked having their backs and shoulders caressed, they like having their necks kissed and suckled and their breasts touched, but there was at least one problem with that prescription in Sherlock's case.

Sherlock's hands moved gently down the curve of his waist. John arched his back with a small, barely contained moan and felt his crotch press harder against Sherlock's. Sherlock's fingertips slid down into the incline of his thighs. John bucked in surprise, not expecting to feel Sherlock's hands in such an intimate place of his body.

He fought the urge to push Sherlock's hands away from his crotch. It felt good. He wanted Sherlock to touch him there, but the sense that they were doing something sinful was difficult to shake.

Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation and retracted his hands from their teasing position. John felt his fingers brush against his erection and his mouth went dry. The possibility that he had hit his head on a rock and was lying in a field somewhere had occurred to him. More than once. Sometimes the idea that he was kissing Sherlock Holmes seemed almost too incredible to him.

While he was still reeling from the new sensations, Sherlock pushed him gently down onto the bed. He seemed to like him on his back. John didn't mind. From below he could admire Sherlock's face and figure. He had developed a fondness for Sherlock's long, slim form and his pale, keen facial features. He couldn't remember when he had first noticed that Sherlock was stunning.

Sherlock brushed back his hair from his forehead. His fingertips caressed his skin ever so slightly. John closed his eyes in anticipation for Sherlock's kiss. He ventured to slide his fingers into Sherlock's hair as his mouth closed in on his. John loved twisting Sherlock's hair around his fingers and felt a little dirty for the amount of heat sent rushing to his crotch as a result of the combination of Sherlock's hair and a gentle bite to his bottom lip. It felt more erotic than his few clumsy, drunken experiences put together.

He almost protested the loss when Sherlock's tongue was suddenly taken from his mouth. He leant back, fixing John with an uncomfortably calculating look. "Are you a virgin?"

John choked. "Wh-what?"

"Are you a virgin?" Sherlock repeated.

"I heard you!" John spluttered, struggling to sit up.

"I'll take that as an affirmative," Sherlock said, sitting back on his heels to allow John upright.

John wiped Sherlock's saliva from the corner of his mouth and stared at him, trying to think of something to say that could redeem himself whilst not being an outright lie. "Does it matter?" he said impatiently, unable to think of anything. "Does my virginity have anything to do with this?"

"Of course not." Sherlock smiled beatifically, pushing him back down flat against the bed and holding him there with a hand on his chest. John could feel his individual fingers through the material of his jumper. "I look forward to taking it," he said, his lips teasingly close to John's.

John's eyes widened. He stared at Sherlock in shock. "W-what?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He slid a hand under John's shirt and jumper and pushed it up so his stomach was exposed. John's skin trembled from the mixture of cold and Sherlock's breath unconsciously caressing it.

His mind was still burning with Sherlock's remark. It must have been a joke. Except... Sherlock didn't seem to joke. Ever.

His mind went abruptly blank as Sherlock's lips suddenly came into contact with his stomach. "O-oh," he said shakily, gripping onto the covers. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock ignored him, dragging his lips down John's stomach to the sensitive skin beneath his navel. John threw his head back with a barely concealed groan. Sherlock's tongue flitted out and caressed him right above his trembling pubic bone.

"Sherlock!" he burst out, craning his head up to look at him. "Would you-you let me...  _speak_!"

Sherlock emitted an exaggerated sigh and sat back on his heels. The corners of his mouth twitched to see the state John was in. John flushed even darker at his expression.

"Don't you think we're taking this a little bit fast?" he said breathlessly.

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. "As long as I'm not doing anything you don't want, no."

John couldn't argue with that. It wasn't like the experience was unpleasant. Far from it. But there was something so urgent about Sherlock's movements that made him feel increasingly out of his depth.

"I'll never do anything you don't want," Sherlock said, his grey eyes fixed on John.

John's managed to remain composed, though his cheeks were burning. "I don't want... I don't want you to feel like..." He looked away, his embarrassment too much to ignore.

"You're not leading me on," Sherlock said shortly. "I trust you. I wish you trusted me."

John shifted uncomfortably where he was. "I... do..." he said uncertainly. "I've never been in a situation like this."

Sherlock sat back on his heels. "Look," he said coldly. "I understand. I really do, but you need to decide what you really want."

"I know what I want!" John retorted. "Why do you have to treat me like an idiot?"

"Because I know what you're really feeling," Sherlock snapped. "You're almost paralysed with fear, with uncertainty. I don't want to feel like I'm forcing you into this."

John stared at him. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said numbly.

Sherlock turned away. John watched him, looking for some sign that he didn't really think John so fickle and pathetic. He didn't understand. He didn't know how Sherlock could be so certain about another person's feelings.

"You need to make sure this is what you want, John," Sherlock said finally, straightening up and sliding his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm not interested in playing games with you."

"I don't understand you," John snapped angrily. "Why would I be doing any of this if I didn't want to be with you? It really doesn't seem like you trust me at all. You might think I'm just a dumb footballer, but I..." He sucked in a sharp breath. "I know what I want."

Sherlock didn't reply. John felt an inward pang of irritation and unease. He felt like he had exposed himself in some unforgivable manner, but he was certain he hadn't done anything wrong.

Without speaking, he stood and left.

_End of Chapter Ten_


	11. Chapter 11

"Mail!"

The word was accompanied by a loud and unwelcome rap on the door. John didn't move. He kept his eyes determinedly closed as Billy's heavy footsteps lumbered across the room. The door gave a squeal on its hinges.

"Morning, Mr. Pip," came Mr. Blake's voice and a swell of noise from the outside corridor.

Billy grunted in response.

John opened one eye, just enough so he could see the door and Blake's bald crown. Billy was clutching two letters in his broad hand.

John saw Blake's eyes flicker in his direction. "Wake Watson up, will you? He'll be late for class. You both will be if you don't hurry up."

Billy gave another indistinct grunt and slammed the door shut. He walked past John and dumped the letters on his desk. Both were for him. Of course. Nobody else's parents  _wrote._

John pushed himself upright. His head hurt and the last thing he felt like doing was reading a letter from his mother and then go to English. As the due date for the rough draft drew closer, all English classes were devoted to writing their play. John had never dreaded it more.

"Mor-"

He had to stop to cough up some phlegm that had lodged itself in his throat from the night before. Great, and he was getting sick. Just what he needed.

"Morning," he tried again.

"Hey," Billy replied thickly, halfway through stripping off his pyjamas.

John hastily grabbed his school uniform from the chair beside his bed and followed suit. It was crumpled. On closer inspection he found a long, dark hair clinging to the shoulder of his shirt. He thinned his lips and carefully plucked it off.

"You got s' mail," Billy said from behind him.

John glanced at the two letters. One looked like a mobile phone bill. He glanced at the cramped, stilted writing on the other envelope. He looked away.

"I'll get them later."

Marty was still in a foul mood in home class. He could no longer verbalize his hatred for Sherlock, so he resorted to surly silence, barely opening his mouth except to bark orders at those around him. He loved the sound of his own voice too much for this to be permanent fixture. Once his humiliation faded away, all of his thoughts would be turned to punishing Sherlock.

John didn't think that Sherlock knew what he had gotten himself into. But, then again, he and Sherlock weren't speaking. Or, more specifically, he wasn't speaking to Sherlock. Ever. Again.

He saw the taller boy's eyes rise up to fix on him as he entered. His body temperature rose a few degrees but he successfully resisted the urge to throw himself at Sherlock's feet and beg him to do whatever he wanted to him. That would have been a serious breach of what "not speaking" involved.

"Morning, Marty," he said mildly, glancing at the boy's stony countenance.

"Hi," Marty said shortly, which was more than what most people had managed to extract from him.

Ben rolled his eyes at him, carefully screened behind Marty's head.

John unconsciously found his eyes had immediately settled on Sherlock. He forced himself to look at the whiteboard instead.

Hurst arrived ten minutes late to class and didn't give out any of the announcements because they were already cutting it incredibly fine for their first class as it was. He read out the roll in record time.

John tried not to listen for the "Sherlock Holmes" but it was difficult to block out. Marty didn't even bother commenting on Sherlock's smoothly delivered "present". John knew that wasn't a good sign.

"John Watson."

"Here," John said, already halfway out of his seat.

"John, could you stay behind a couple of minutes? I need a word."

John stared at Hurst's unsmiling expression. Cigarettes and dirty magazines immediately hurtled through his mind's eye. He saw Sherlock glance at him sharply as he made his way to the door. John ignored him and stayed behind his desk.

"Tough luck, man," Ben said, glancing at him. "I'll save you a seat."

John just nodded. The rest of the class filtered out, throwing curious glances at Hurst and John. Hurst sat down behind his desk and beckoned to John with one finger, without looking at him.

"Sir?" John said, his heart doing a somersault in his chest.

"I just wanted to check on yours and Sherlock's progress with your assignment," he said in a deceivingly casual manner.

"F-fine," John said clumsily, Sherlock's name immediately making him feel uncomfortably warm under the collar. "It's almost done."

"Good," Hurst said, finally looking up and fixing him with a calculating and not altogether friendly expression. "I trust you witnessed what occurred yesterday."

"Yes," John replied coolly. "I did."

"Were you here for the extent of the argument?" Hurst asked, a distinctly sharp aspect to his voice.

"Yes," John said, wondering where this was leading.

"I'm disappointed," Hurst said, raising his eyebrows. "I would have thought that a boy like you would have intervened. I'm sure you saw that Hester and Holmes's conversation was hardly friendly."

John stared at him, taken aback. "But- I-"

"It's just as bad to sit back and let things happen as instigate them," Hurst said in a hard voice. "I asked you to do this assignment with Holmes because I thought you would understand better than your classmates."

John's astonishment was quickly overtaken by anger. "Sir!" he said indignantly. "When I said I'd do this assignment with Sh-  _Holmes_  I didn't realise I was supposed to be his bodyguard."

"No," Hurst said, seeming to check himself. "That's not what I meant. I just wish that you, of all people, had stood up and said something. Hester can be..." He was clearly struggling for a word that wouldn't insult John's friend. "Headstrong."

John stared at him. "Sherlock doesn't need me to look after him."

Hurst sighed. "Alright... Well, I hope you two are getting along ok. I thought you had hit it off alright before yesterday."

John knew he was gradually flushing darker and darker where he stood. He hoped Hurst didn't notice.

"Ok, thanks," he said hurriedly, edging towards the door.

"See you in English," Hurst said tiredly, taking his glasses off to polish them.

John gratefully made his escape and hurried to catch up with the rest of his class.

\--

Sherlock lit up his third cigarette of the morning and took a drag. He coughed into his sleeve and dropped the butt of his last onto the grass. The sun was struggling to fight its way through the clouds and he was shivering inside the thin confines of his school jumper, but he'd rather be out here freezing to death than inside with the rest of the hypocrites.

He noticed the fingers holding the fag were shaking. He hastily steadied them with his other hand.

The bell rang somewhere behind in the school. He stood where he was for five minutes more, not smoking and not bothering to even try and warm himself against the damp air. He dropped his unfinished cigarette onto the grass with the others and crushed it with his heel.

When he reached class, he was late but everyone had already been paired off in their groups. They hardly looked at him when he entered. Everyone seemed to have been stunned into silence concerning him. He was not naive enough to think that it would last, but it was nice while it did.

He spotted John sitting alone in the back row. His cheeks were very red and he was staring determinedly down at his desk. Sherlock knew he had seen him come in. He went over to him and stood at the edge of his desk, staring down at the smaller boy.

"Ah! Glad you could join us, Holmes."

Sherlock turned as Hurst came through the door. He saw Hurst's eyes dart towards John with an almost questioning gaze.

"You two can have the empty classroom down the hall. You should be well into editing now, so try and get as much of it done."

Sherlock heard John stand up behind him. "Yes, sir."

Sherlock followed John out. He was still not quite sure of what he was going to say. He stared at the back of John's neatly combed hair as they walked down towards the empty classroom.

It was dark inside and John hastily fumbled for the lights. Sherlock stood by the door, fiddling with his jumper and feeling himself growing hotter and more uncomfortable with every moment that passed. He had decided what he was going to say hours beforehand, but his mental teleprompter seemed to have broken down. He couldn't conjure the words up when John was right there watching him.

"I suppose I should-" he began clumsily, at the same time John had said something like: "We should probably-"

They both cut off, staring at each other in intense embarrassment. It had been one day and Sherlock felt like he might burn to ash if he didn't have John near him in the next five minutes. He was filled with terror at the prospect that his impatience with John had destroyed his chance with him forever.

John recovered first and went to sit down at a desk. "We should probably get started," he said coldly.

Sherlock numbly nodded and went to sit next to him. He stared at the pile of papers on the desk. John kept his head down.

"We might as well just keep going and try and finish this," John said, an almost undetectable strain to his voice. "There's no point in trying to edit."

"Ok," Sherlock managed to verbalize with some effort.

"I think we should have at least one scene where the son is a suspect, just to throw people off," John said, determinedly avoiding his eye. Even past the almost convincing layer of indifference was a frailty that Sherlock could clearly perceive.

He didn't say anything. He nodded, staring blankly at the page while John's hand scribbled something down. His insides were tautening and loosening by turns. It felt like every breath John took and every movement he made was magnified to a wild extent, so that he imagined he could hear each of John's individual heartbeats.

John turned the page over. "I'll try and get as much written tonight as possible. Unless you want to-"

He stopped abruptly. For a moment Sherlock didn't realise why, but then he realised that somehow his hand had become curled around John's wrist. He stared at it. It took John a few moments to collect himself and tug it back.

Sherlock let him go, though every part of him would have preferred to keep it firmly around John's wrist. The contact felt like a burn applied directly to his flesh.

John's voice wavered, as he tried to continue as though nothing had happened. "I can probably finish this tonight, if you give me your notes about... about the... thing."

He stared at the play and Sherlock stared at him, his mouth growing drier by the moment. "John," he said hoarsely.

John barely glanced at him, though Sherlock could almost feel the heat rising off his skin. "And we can probably skip all the technicalities about characters and such and-"

"John," Sherlock said sharply. He laid a hand on John's forearm.

John jerked like he had been burned and looked at him with an almost wild expression in his usually mild blue eyes. "Sherlock, don't," he said in a would-be hard voice. "We tried that, it didn't work."

"You don't understand-" Sherlock tried to begin.

John cut him off with eyes flashing. "No,  _you_  don't understand. You treat everyone like shit and then wonder why you're alone!"

Sherlock was relieved that John had spoken, even if he was clearly furious and hurt. "You know I would never do anything purposely to hurt you-"

"I don't know that," John snapped, standing abruptly and almost tripping over his chair in his haste to get away from Sherlock. "I don't know anything about you! One moment, you're almost sweet and the next you... you just-"

"Almost sweet?" Sherlock said, wondering whether he should be flattered or offended by that description.

John turned to him and Sherlock saw the corners of his mouth twitch. The almost-smile vanished a moment later and John looked grim. "Who are you?"

Sherlock sighed. "Let's not play silly games. You know who I am."

"Barely," John replied, his eyes sharp.

"Who do you think I am?" Sherlock snapped, staring at John in blank frustration.

Why was John playing these games? Didn't he see what Sherlock felt for him? He must have been blind.

John looked stung for a moment and then his features rapidly hardened. He went to the desk and gathered up the play, his fingers fumbling clumsily with the pages.

"So you're going to storm off again like a child?" Sherlock snapped, his eyes desperately flickering towards the door. "Why don't you stay long enough so we can talk about it-"

"There's nothing to talk about!" John rounded on him. "You have no understanding of other people! You only care about yourself."

"I care about you... a lot," the words sounded unsteady and clumsy coming from Sherlock's mouth. "I didn't know you needed me to tell you that."

"Of course I do!" John said, his exasperation providing a handy distraction from his embarrassment at Sherlock's unintentionally tender words. "We're not all like you, Sherlock. We can't _read_ people."

"I'm aware that I may have... slightly... overreacted," Sherlock said, looking away.

"Slightly," John said coolly. "You have a way of making feel persecuted for the simplest and most natural of human feelings."

"I'm not used to dealing with other people's emotions," Sherlock said, agitatedly getting to his feet.

He didn't trust himself to look at John. He fixed his eyes on the window and what he could see of the front courtyard below. He could feel John watching him, waiting for him to explain himself, explain his follies and just how difficult it was for him to explain what he felt, when he had never felt anything like it before.

"When I was younger..." he hesitated, raising his eyes to meet John's.

John was frozen in front of the desk, the play lodged in his arms. His expression was still vaguely suspicious. Sherlock felt his resolve slip.

"Well..." he said, clearing his throat, "I was wrong. I made a mistake."

John stared at him. "Is that it? Is that my apology?" he snapped, flushing. "You're impossible."

He stalked across to the door, but Sherlock got there first. He placed one hand hard against it. John blinked indignantly up at him. "Let me out, Sherlock," he said threateningly.

"No," Sherlock retorted. "I won't. You have to listen-"

"No, I don't," John said, trying to twist out of Sherlock's grip on his arm. "I don't want anything to do with you."

The words stung, but Sherlock knew better than to trust them. He dared to touch John's chin. John shrunk away against the wall.

"We can do this," Sherlock said softly, reluctantly lowering his hand. "We should be together."

"You had your chance," John snapped. "The way you treated me yesterday is not how someone who wants to have a relationship acts."

Sherlock felt his grip unconsciously tighten on John's arm. "Please... John..." he said. "I made a mistake. I've never been taught to read anything more than what I see. Intuition doesn't come easily to me."

He looked for a sign that John understood, that John would give him another chance. He needed John. So much more than he had realised. To think that he may have singlehandedly sabotaged his own chance with the boy he had longed for for so long was agonizing beyond belief.

"Look," John said, running a hand through his hair, "I'll think about it. I really can't talk about this now. We have a draft due in days and it isn't even finished. You may not care about getting good grades, but I do."

He pulled his arm from Sherlock's grip. "Let me out."

Sherlock nodded and moved his hand, but before he stepped back he leant forward and planted a very chaste kiss on John's lips. It was brief and soft, and John didn't push him away. Then he turned and walked away.

A moment later he heard the door open and close behind him.

\--

John unconsciously traced his mouth with his fingers for the umpteenth time that night. He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the unfinished play in front of him. He had spent two hours typing up what they had already written onto his laptop and it was already almost midnight. He had a couple of days to finish the storyline but no words seemed to want to come to him.

He would write a few paragraphs and then delete them. And that happened again and again. The storyline seemed flat. The murder seemed increasingly improbable. He had realised long ago that the play had seemed a lot more fun when he'd had Sherlock beside him.

But the boy had been such a jerk. Such an unfeeling jerk. He hadn't understood John's fears. He hadn't even seemed to want to. His explanations, if they had come from anyone else, wouldn't have been worth listening to.

John sighed into his hands. But because they came from Sherlock's mouth, John couldn't help but trust him. Against his will. And his better judgement.

"God damn it," he snapped, shutting his laptop and sitting back in his chair.

He checked his phone again. There were still no messages. From Sherlock or anyone else. Sherlock's texts were usually fairly to the point. "Come to the library", "bring food", "I'm coming to find you". John didn't mind. He probably should have, but Sherlock wasn't... normal. John liked that. Probably more than what was natural.

As he sat there, his subconscious kept demanding terrible questions from him. Are you happy, John? Are you happy living the way you are? He honestly didn't know anymore. He had been becoming numb in recent years. He had lived this way for so long, he didn't really know what real, lasting happiness was. He glanced at the unopened letter on his dresser.

He checked his phone again. Still nothing. Well, he couldn't expect Sherlock to chase after him anymore. He had put his feelings on the table, something which was clearly difficult for him. Emotions seemed to confuse Sherlock more than anything else.

John dropped his phone onto the desk and walked across the room. He was too agitated to stay still.

He didn't often have the room to himself. He had skipped dinner just so he could escape unwanted company for a bit longer. It wasn't a desire that his friends particularly understood. _Wanting_  to be alone was only a hair's breadth away from  _wanting_ to have no friends or social life.

They'd all be back soon. Midnight was the latest that grade twelvers were allowed out of their dorm rooms. A niggling voice in the back of his mind reminded him that if he wanted to "do" anything he only had ten minutes in which to do it in. If he wanted to... go and find Sherlock.

His face was pale and tired in the reflection of the window. Sherlock had given him a few weeks of real, tangible happiness. It hadn't been lasting, but he had tasted real moments of bliss while he'd been with him. Sherlock had the power to hurt him, but he also had the power the make him happy. That was something he could not deny.

He turned and walked back to his desk. The light of his phone was still on. He picked it up and tentatively pressed "Messages".

_Is it ok if I came down in a couple of minutes?_

He dropped it again and agitatedly walked up and down his room until finally, a few minutes later the familiar chimes sounded. He walked hastily over and snatched it up, eagerly opening the one new message.

_Yes._

Well, Sherlock wasn't one to mince words.

\--

Sherlock threw his phone onto the bed and hurried across to his dresser, yanking it open and pulling out a clean shirt and jeans. He was still in his school uniform and it was heavily creased from lying down on his stomach all evening.

He tore off his shirt and trousers and tossed them under the bed and got into his clean clothes as quickly as he was physically able. He hadn't dared wait more than five minutes to reply to John. Anything less than five would have seemed obsessive and anything more would have seemed inattentive.

He was just flattening his always stubbornly untidy hair when there was a markedly hesitant knock on the door. He didn't move. He stood in the centre of the room, smoothing his shirt as well as he could and staring around the room for anything that would serve as an immediate mood killer. It was hardly a bachelor pad, but John seemed to like that.

Well, it was too late now.

"Sherlock?" John hissed through the door.

Sherlock counted to three and then went to open it. John almost fell through it when he did. He stumbled upright.

"Sorry," he mumbled, staring around the room in a clear attempt to avoid looking at Sherlock.

"Come inside. We have to close the door," Sherlock replied, though his heart was bounding up and down inside of him.

John stumbled inside and edged towards the bed. Sherlock closed the door and turned to him. John was still dressed in his school uniform, but it was in better shape than his. He looked very pale.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said awkwardly.

"It's kind of hot in here," John said slightly breathlessly, not looking at him.

"I can open a window if you-"

"No," John said, almost sharply. "I'll just..." he motioned to his jumper.

Sherlock nodded and tentatively sat down on the unused bed opposite him. He watched as John tugged the jumper over his head and dropped it neatly beside him. Taut, pale stomach muscles were visible for a few fleeting moments before being swallowed by his plain white school shirt.

John shyly met his eye. Sherlock knew that he forgave him. He didn't need John to say it. This was one of the few times when he knew that what he felt was correct. John was giving him a second chance.

"I think we can make this work," John said in a very steady voice. "I think we owe it to each other to try. But..."

Sherlock waited, barely daring to breathe.

"But if you ever hurt me, I'll leave you," John said in a tone that was both hard and bashful at the same time.

Sherlock silently stood and went over to him, kneeling on the floor in front of him. He pressed a kiss to the corner of John's lips. "I will never intentionally hurt you. I'll die first." His voice shuddered. It wasn't a lie, it was the cold, hard truth.

John made a soft sound, desperate and vulnerable. Sherlock wanted to take him in his arms and protect him from the many hurts and disappointments in his life. He wanted to shield him from his teammates, his parents, his own mind. All of his uncertainties, all of his misgivings would vanish if he knew just how much he was worth.

Sherlock trapped John's waist in his arms and his lips with his. John's hand gripped the back of his shirt, urging him deeper against him. His legs, unconsciously or not, spread wider against Sherlock. Sherlock took the invitation and slid his hand down between John's thighs.

John gasped, though it sounded almost like a choke. Sherlock took advantage of his open mouth to press his tongue inside. He caught John's bottom lip in his teeth and gently tugged it as he moved back to ease John down onto his back.

"Why do I always end up in this position?" John grumbled, his features soft with lust and burgeoning arousal.

Sherlock stroked along John's hairline with his thumb. "Because it suits you," he said, his laconic tone failing him as his growing hardness was pressed against John's thigh.

John felt it too and squirmed on the bed. He tossed his head to one side with a barely suppressed moan. Sherlock couldn't verbalize what sensations watching John like this awakened inside of him. The urge to posses John's body was sometimes almost too strong.

Sherlock took John's mouth again with his. John's hands felt for his hair, his fingertips clammy and damp. Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair in return, deciding he wanted him to look utterly ravished when he had finished with him. He broke away from John's mouth and gently slid his lips down John's petite chin to his neck. John emitted a shuddery breath and his grip on Sherlock's hair tightened.

Sherlock pressed himself flush against John's body and they groaned in unison to feel their twin erections pinned against each other through the material of their clothes. Sherlock gently suckled on the curve of John's neck and felt goosebumps spring up where he bit.

John's back arched. His breathing was becoming more haggard, more desperate with every passing moment. Sherlock felt his hands slide down from his hair. Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to pin John's hands to the mattress with his and applied a bite to John's flesh, harder than before.

The reaction was immediate. John could hardly keep from crying out and he bucked his hips against Sherlock's, further serving to grind their crotches together.

"Sh-Sherlock-" John stammered, though Sherlock was confident that it was not from reluctance.

He leant back, resting on John's hips and undoing John's buttons one by one. He had meant to do it slowly, teasingly but his own reluctance to have John undressed won out and he found himself tearing at them. He yanked open John's shirt. John's chest was creamy white and very scarcely adorned by mousey hair on his chest and from the navel downwards.

Sherlock lowered his mouth to a dark nipple and took it gently between his teeth. John writhed. "Uh-God-Sherlock... st-stop-"

Sherlock hesitated, looking up at the flushed and panting younger boy. John tilted his head up with an impatient huff.

"Figure of speech, you idiot," he snapped, struggling against Sherlock's grip on his wrists.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not releasing John. He licked the hardened nub and then moved down to the incline between them. He ran his tongue down to the shuddering area below John's navel. He risked the tiniest of licks against it.

John's groan was encouraging. One of John's hands managed to tear itself from his grasp and damp fingertips tangled in his hair again. He thumbed at the band of John's trousers and looked up at him, almost serving to get a chunk of his hair torn out at the same time.

John stared at him, beautiful in his arousal and desperation. He wanted Sherlock's touch and Sherlock had never felt anything so glorious as the sense of being wanted. At length, John gave a very slight nod of his head.

Sherlock didn't need anything more than that. He knelt over John's lower half and loosened his belt and then his buttons. John raised his hips so he could tug them down to his knees. Underneath he was wearing a pair of red boxer briefs. They were rather tight-fitting and his cock was straining beautifully against the material.

Sherlock palmed it gently. John bit his lip and an expression of intense, taut pleasure flickered across his handsome features. Sherlock wanted so badly to extract that look from him again and again until John could hardly bear it.

He gently touched the inside of John's slender thigh and licked the telltale bulge through the cotton. He flicked his eyes up to catch the heated, needy expression that flashed through John's face again.

"Sherlock..." he panted, struggling to raise his head. "Stop t-teasing me-"

"Don't you like it?" Sherlock smirked, sliding a hand lower under John's crotch.

John made a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a squeak. "Stop!" he said shrilly, eyes very wide.

Sherlock wanted to do anything but, but he got the feeling that it wasn't a figure of speech this time. He slid his hand out and knelt back. "Are you ok?"

John was breathing very hard. Sherlock couldn't help watching his chest rise and fall with some fascination. His hair was ruffled almost beyond recognition and his complexion was splotched. "I don't think I can... yet..." he said, sounding embarrassed and turned on..

"Let me do something for you," Sherlock said carefully, conscious not to push too hard. "We don't have to go any faster than you want to."

John was silent for a moment; his eyes flickered with evident curiosity. "Ok," he said meekly at length.

As soon as he heard that brief affirmation, Sherlock ventured to slide his thumbs underneath the band of John's underwear. John responded by arching his hips up so Sherlock could move them more easily down his thighs. Sherlock could see him gnawing on his lip. He was frightened, but he wanted to show Sherlock that he wanted him. Sherlock knew there had never been any doubt that John felt for him what he felt for John, whatever insecure doubts he'd had the day before had been beyond idiocy.

He gritted his teeth to keep from moaning when he finally managed to free John from his constraint. John's fingers were curled into the covers, he was holding onto them so tightly that they had become twisted around his hands. He was struggling to keep his head upright, but it was clear that it wasn't comfortable.

"Lie down," Sherlock said, more sharply than he had meant.

John didn't argue. He rested his head down, though his figure was still taut and strained. His legs were stiff against Sherlock's thighs. He lowered his mouth to John's straining erection. It was beaded with pre-cum and the base was surrounded by a patch of fair pubic hair. Sherlock slid his fingers around the shaft and gently licked the crown.

John whimpered, writhing against the bed and making it shake against the wall.

"Hush," Sherlock said softly, sliding one hand up to John's stomach and gently caressing the skin beneath his navel.

John rolled his hips up, bringing the tip of his cock up almost against Sherlock's mouth again. Sherlock took the unspoken hint and gently took John deep into his mouth. He felt John shudder bodily against him.

"Sherlock... Ugh- Feels so-"

Sherlock licked the underside to the tip. The taste was familiar. Hot and salty, but it tasted far better because it was John's arousal he was tasting. John's need and desire. Sherlock was gentle with him. He knew it wouldn't take long for John to climax.

Sherlock didn't mind. He had come to relish the idea of tutoring John in pleasure, in what he liked and wanted. More than anything he wanted to see John's face when he climaxed. He wanted to see the expression in his eyes.

He gently sucked on the excited, damp flesh. He knew his actions were clumsy. The last time he'd done this had been some time ago, but John wouldn't know that. And he doubted whether it would make much of a difference if he had.

He could feel John jerking against his hand on his stomach. He was trying to suppress the sounds he was making, but Sherlock wanted desperately to hear them.

He paused for breath. "Let me hear you," he said softly, tightening his grip around the shaft of John's cock. "Don't hold it back."

John couldn't reply. He was unreachable at this point. His face was almost unrecognisable, it was damp and violently red. His lips were parted and shuddering. Sherlock moaned. He couldn't help himself.

He hastily moved his hand from John's stomach and rubbed himself between his legs. In time with his frantic self-inflicted caresses, he moved his mouth fiercely and increasingly clumsily against John's flesh, licking and sucking at the crown and the sensitive glands he knew would drive John crazy.

John's sounds became more erratic with every suck. He rocked his hips hard against Sherlock's mouth, almost bruising his lips in his fervour. The sounds were perfect. Sherlock could feel himself aching, straining against his jeans. He managed to force his hand down into his jeans and take himself in hand.

John balled his fist into his mouth. "Sherlock!" His cry was muffled and strained but Sherlock heard it clear as a bell.

John gave a violent spasm. He balled up his hand in Sherlock's hair, almost tearing it from his scalp. And then he orgasmed into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's eyes flickered and almost rolled back in his head. He crushed his hand against himself as his own seed burst out between his fingers.

He swallowed as much of John's ejaculate as he could, though some of it dribbled down his chin. John whimpered and Sherlock knew he had seen. "Sherlock..." he said uncertainly.

Sherlock got to his knees with some difficulty. His legs were shaking almost uncontrollably. His jeans were stained and he had almost torn the buttons off by shoving his hand down the band, but it was difficult to care about either when he saw how deliciously dishevelled John was.

"Sherlock," John said again. "Are you..." He hesitated, seeming unsure of what to say.

Sherlock smiled wryly. "I'm fine."

John scrambled upright and hastily yanked his underwear up his hips. His school trousers had wrapped themself around his knees.

Sherlock glanced down at his ruined trousers. "I'd better change."

He stepped off the bed and went across to his dresser. He pulled out a clean pair and changed, purposely taking a little longer than what was really necessary to give John a chance to collect himself.

When he turned back he found John sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair was still sticking up in several places but he looked miraculously well put together for someone who had been doing what they had been doing just minutes beforehand.

He stood, clearing his throat in an amusingly businesslike manner. "Sorry," he said awkwardly.

"Why are you?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

John shrugged, looking away. He may have blushed, if his cheeks hadn't already been extremely red. "I don't know."

Sherlock smirked and went to him. He gently tilted John's chin up towards him. "Don't be sorry. You made such pretty noises for me," he gently kissed him.

John tentatively put his hands around his neck, rocking up onto his toes to deepen the kiss. A moment later he broke away. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not rocket science."

And that wasn't entirely the truth but he wasn't going to ruin their perfect evening with something as ugly as the truth.

John laughed. "I've never done anything like that before," he said sheepishly.

"You haven't done much," Sherlock said wryly, drinking in every inch of John's glowing complexion.

"You have," John said, studying Sherlock's face. "It seems."

Sherlock glanced away. "It's late. Your charming roommate might be missing you."

John sighed and untangled himself from Sherlock's arms. "Yeah. Probably."

Sherlock's heart leapt at the note of reluctance in John's voice. He wanted to stay with him. Sherlock wished he could keep John all night. He'd pleasure him all night long and all of John's moans and breathless pleas would be his.

John grabbed his jumper from the floor and pulled it over his head. "I've done stuff, you know," he said in a strange voice. "To girls. I've just never been with a boy. It's different."

Sherlock was a little puzzled by that statement. He frowned at him. "Ok?"

John went very red and mumbled something unintelligible.

He walked past him to the door and then paused and turned. Sherlock decided not to torture him by playing dumb and went to deliver the unasked for farewell kiss. The farewell kiss became rather more heated than he had intended and he found John's legs entangled in his and his hands gripping his shoulders as their mouths tumbled against each other in increasing fervour.

John was the sensible one who pulled away. "I have to go," he hissed, when Sherlock instead began attacking his neck. "Hah! Sh-Ugh- _lock._ "

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled into his skin.

He reluctantly stepped away. John fumbled for the doorknob. The door opened with a quiet groan. John turned to him with a wild expression. "The door's not locked!"

Sherlock stared at him. "Very good, John," he said slowly.

"Shut up," John hissed. "We're trying to be discreet here. The least you can do is pretend to be concerned."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Where's the fun in a secret affair if there isn't the possibility that you'll be discovered and beaten to a bloody pulp?"

John shook his head at him with narrowed eyes. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked away to hide his grin. "Goodnight."

When John was gone, and the door safely locked behind him, he finally allowed himself to give into the sensations inside of him, which were threatening to approach something like euphoria.

_End of Chapter Eleven_


	12. Chapter 12

John ran his thumb along the edge of the stapled play. It was about 50 pages, 20k words long. There had been a word limit of 25,000 so they were well within it but he had a niggling feeling that when he got it back again, covered in the scrawl marks of Hurst's red pen, he would want to add more to it than the word limit would allow.

He stole a glance at his partner opposite him. The class was clustered in their various partnerships, waiting to be summoned to surrender their creative attempts. Marty was seated a bare few inches to his right elbow, but still too sulky and shamefaced to be looking at anyone at the moment. John had never known anyone to take a blow to their ego with such ferocious self-pity. Not that he regretted the absence of the boy's usual jibes. Even at football practice he tended to keep his head down and said next to nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock's hand resting on the desk in front of him. His own fingers gave a slight, almost unnoticeable twitch, as though they were dying to wrap themselves around Sherlock's. They had been wrapped around his that morning when they had stolen away to a far, unseen corner of the grounds to indulge their morning need for each other. They saw each other every night and every day but it hardly seemed enough.

It _wasn't_ enough.

John flicked his eyes up to Sherlock's and found that he was being watched. Sherlock's stern expression hardly softened when he looked at him, but there was an almost indistinguishable heat to the boy's eyes when he looked at him that only John could detect.

John gave a shiver, though the room was clammy from the heating and forced himself to look away. He might give into temptation and smile if he continued looking at Sherlock. He could feel it gathering at the corners of his mouth. He had thought about what Sherlock had done to him every night since that night. It wasn't just a sticky recount of meaningless pleasure. Or at least he would prefer to think it wasn't, as sticky as those recounts could become.

"Watson. You're next."

John jerked his head up, hoping the colour to his cheeks would be ascribed to the overzealous heating system. Hurst nodded his head to the pile of plays, short stories and movie scripts already towering beside him. John couldn't help feeling intimidated as he dropped his script on the pile, wondering what he was pitting himself again.

"Thank you, John," Hurst said, glancing up at him through his wonky spectacles.

John said nothing and returned to his seat. Marty jerked his head up when he fell into the chair next to him, as though he had been woken from a deep stupor. With almost alarming speed, his eyes snapped towards Holmes.

"You know why they stuck you with that cunt, don't you?" Marty said in a voice just loud enough to carry to Sherlock's ears.

John jerked his head in Marty's direction, very interested to hear Marty's theory. Clearly more interested than Sherlock, who hadn't moved or even looked up. "Why?" he asked quietly.

"You're the only one who won't give him the kicking he fucking deserves," Marty growled, looking away.

Sherlock shot him a contemptuous look and said nothing. John felt sheepish. For a few panicked moments, he had thought Marty about to say something very different. John risked a look at Sherlock. There was something about Sherlock's deadpan expression that made him want to laugh out loud.

Sherlock was completely unafraid of Marty and it made John terrified and at the same time, it was thrilling to see Marty challenged and crossed. John wished he had the guts Sherlock did.

The bell rang for lunch and there was a mass chorus of chairs scraping the wooden floor as the boys hastened to escape. John collected his pencil case and stuffed it into his bag. Across from him, Sherlock hadn't moved. He had taken to leaving the classroom last. John thought it was to avoid the crowd of people who disliked him more than ever, but he also suspected it was so John could make his excuses to his friends and get away to see him without raising too much suspicion.

"Hey!" Hurst called irritably as the first few boys were already pouring out of the classroom door. "Wait! Come back in here for a minute!"

They reluctantly returned. Hurst cast a look over the impatient faces.

"Principal Harvey wants to see all of you in the assembly hall for a special meeting," he said, seeming to know that this news wouldn't go over well. "You're to eat and then go directly to the hall at a quarter past one. The whole grade will be there."

There was an immediate swell of protests and groans. Marty and Billy were particularly vocal in their displeasure. Behind him, John heard Marty call Harvey a series of particularly colourful names.

"Well, it wasn't my idea," Hurst said with a shrug. "Go and get some lunch. Don't be late. They'll probably call the roll, so they'll know if you're skiving."

John didn't know whether that was an empty threat or not, but he knew he couldn't risk his absence being noticed. He took his time in leaving and purposely knocked the contents of his bag onto the floor in the corridor to shake off his friends. He told them not to wait for him and anxiously watched until they had disappeared around the corner.

"Good old Harvey," came a voice from behind him, as soon as the rest of the class had dispersed. "Apt as ever at ensuring our lives resolve around his self-conscious concerns."

John jerked around. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

Sherlock smirked and took a step towards to him. "Did I scare you?"

"You always scare me," John said, resisting the urge to brush back the stray strands of Sherlock's hair from his pale forehead. "You shouldn't piss Marty off. He'll kill you one of these days."

Sherlock shrugged with an expression of complete unconcern. "Are you hungry?"

John knew there could only be one answer to that. "Not in the slightest."

John didn't entirely know how, but Sherlock had managed to secure several hiding places for them to spend their brief snatches of time together. In unused classrooms, nooks under staircases and corridors that didn't look like they had been used in years. And the photography dark room. Sherlock had somehow managed to secure a key. John preferred not to ask how.

John glanced up and down the empty corridor while Sherlock unlocked the door, with almost frustrating ease.

"Hurry up, will you!" he hissed. "What if someone catches us?"

"They're all in the cafeteria," Sherlock replied calmly, opening the door and stepping back for John.

John tentatively stepped inside. When they said "dark room", they really really meant it. He stuck his hands out in front of him, remembering the first time he'd been in there when he'd collided with a desk and almost dislocated his knee.

There was one light switch in the entire room and it was in the far corner. He leant against the desk and waited while Sherlock made his way stealthily across to turn it on. Watery, yellowy light filled the room. It was so dim that it barely lit anything beyond a metre directly underneath it. It also gave the room a sickly, sallow look that John didn't entirely like.

Sherlock dropped his bag onto the floor next to John's and came back to him. He always smelt faintly of cigarettes and medicine.

"You look horrible in that lighting," John noted. "Like an emaciated skeleton."

"Well, you look like a yellowing midget," Sherlock replied, doing what John had so desperately wanted to and brushing a warm hand along the curve of John's forehead.

John gripped the corners of Sherlock's collar and yanked him forward. "We only have fifteen minutes," he said. "No time for niceties."

Sherlock closed the gap between them before John could. John was taken by surprise by the sudden collision of their two bodies. He gasped and Sherlock immediately took advantage of his momentarily opened mouth to plunge his tongue inside.

John closed his eyes on the ugly lighting and pressed himself against Sherlock. It was always difficult for him to get his arms around Sherlock's neck the way he wanted to. He satisfied himself with resting them on Sherlock's broad but distinctly delicate shoulders.

Sherlock's mouth was surprisingly dominant when they kissed. He always demanded more and more from John, he always wanted to kiss him deeper and harder than John was used to. He had given up trying to hide his bewilderment. As gratifying as it would have been to have the upper hand over Sherlock's all-knowing psyche, it was useless trying to hide anything from Sherlock. He always knew.

Sherlock moved his mouth down to John's neck. He seemed to have mapped out all of John's most sensitive spots in a few hours and he could reduce John to a puddle of goo in a much briefer amount of time. He paused only to grip John's waist and deposit him on the desk to get better access to his flesh playground. John had to spread his legs to allow Sherlock close enough to get to his neck. He didn't mind, except he was already hard as a rock.

Sherlock gave a soft chuckle as he felt John's erection pin against him. Damn the cheapskates who had designed the school uniform. If it had been just a fraction thicker, it wouldn't have been so goddamn obvious.

Before John could retort, Sherlock was kissing him again and the protest died on his mouth. He gripped Sherlock's waist to steady himself, privately wishing he could make Sherlock emit half of the humiliating sounds he did. Holmes's hands roamed from his waist to the buttons along his shirt.

John gaped at him. "No-Sher-"

Too late. Cold fingers slid underneath his opened shirt, pinching teasingly at his nipple and forcing a violent shiver from his entire body.

"Uh-Gu-Sherlock..." John said thickly, rolling his hips up against Sherlock.

Sherlock moaned and broke away. He was panting and had an unusual flush of colour to his pallid complexion. John leant forward, eager to have Sherlock's soft mouth on his again. To his surprise, Sherlock stepped away.

"We need to go to that meeting," he said, remarkably calm for someone who's mouth was so red.

"What?" John said in disbelief. "Fuck, Sherlock. You can't just kiss someone like that and-"

"If I continue kissing you like that, I may not be able to contain myself and be forced to deflower you in the Redverse dark room," Sherlock said archly.

John flushed. "Sherlock!" he spluttered.

"Besides, we need to keep up appearances," Sherlock said, flattening his hair. "Can't take the risk that someone will notice."

John slid off of the desk and did his buttons up. "You're a horny bastard," he muttered.

"Look who's talking."

John narrowed his eyes at him. "Let's just go."

Sherlock looked away to hide a smirk and went across to turn the lights out. John stumbled towards the door and out into the blinding sunshine.

"How do I look?" John said, nervously patting down his hair.

Sherlock followed him and closed the door. He turned and studied John's face. "You look like you've been sucking face."

John glanced around. "So when-"

Sherlock smacked a brief kiss to his lips and turned on his heel. "Meet me at the football stairs," he said over his shoulder.

John stared after him, his face still burning. He shook his head and headed in the other direction.

\--

Sherlock purposely took the longest route possible to the assembly hall to give John a few minutes to get inside. The outside of the hall seemed quiet, so he slipped inside and took a seat in the empty back row. He scanned the sea of heads in front of him until his eyes fell on John's blonde hair near the front, next to Billy's unmistakeable form.

None of the other teachers were present, just Harvey's walrus-like figure behind the pulpit. There was an odd collection of what looked like junk in front of him. Some of it looked suspiciously like broken bottles and empty cigarette packets from where Sherlock was seated.

The assembly had already begun and Harvey's voice echoed around the hall like a loud speaker.

"As you well know," he said gravely, his hands carefully positioned away from the pile of rubbish in front of him, "Redverse prides itself on the discipline and respect of its students. That is why it grieves me to have to speak to you on such an unpleasant subject."

Sherlock thought he knew where this was going.

"Contraband is not just against our rules, it is unlawful for people of your age to possess it," Harvey continued, still sounding like he was delivering a eulogy. "The school dumpster is not a dumping ground for banned material. It is purely for school use and is not emptied often enough for large amounts of rubbish to be _stuffed_ into it willy-nilly."

He sounded extremely displeased, but someone was stupid enough to titter. Harvey's eyes snapped towards the perpetrator.

"You may laugh, but I can tell you now that we will be taking this matter very seriously," he said sharply. He picked up a filthy beer bottle between the very tips of his fingers and lifted it up for them to see. "Alcohol is strictly forbidden on school grounds, as are cigarettes." He let it drop with a heavy clunk. "And certain reading material also." He licked his lips uncomfortably and plucked a very crinkled and ripped magazine from the heap.

Sherlock's stomach dropped. Even in its current state he recognised the magazine. It had been branded into his mind for weeks. He was impressed with John's initiative, though it perhaps wasn't the most creative or sensible place to dump it.

"This is a tiny collection of what was found," Harvey said loudly over the ensuing remarks and sniggers. "All of it is against school rules."

"Not to mention nature," Sherlock heard someone close to him say in a low voice. "Who's do you think it is?"

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John. John hadn't moved. A seat down from him, Marty was saying something in a fairly animated tone, but John didn't look like he was listening.

The general murmur of speculation had not died down. Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before someone pointed the finger at him. He knew it and didn't care.

Harvey held up a hand to quiet the gradually increasing rumble of voices. Silence did not fall. Most of the boys completely ignored Harvey's feeble attempt at discipline. Marty's voice was particularly distinguishable, though Sherlock fortunately could not make out what he was saying.

"Silence!" Harvey barked, surprising the room into quiet. It was the first time they had seen Harvey lose his temper. "This is not a game! Trust me, we _will_ catch those who continue to break the rules. If we discover that contraband has been brought into the school again, the entire grade will be banned from leaving school grounds during the term."

Predictably this threat did not go down well. There was nothing short of an uproar. Sherlock sat silently in his seat. He wasn't quite as gullible as his classmates and didn't believe that Harvey would really carry out such a threat when he knew how many ill-tempered and bored students he could have on his hands if he refused them what they saw as their God given right to go to town and get drunk during the weekends.

"You want to know who's fucking magazine that is?"

Marty was out of his seat. Along the row John had sunk very low in his. The indignant finger that was jabbed in Sherlock's direction was not unexpected or unwelcome. He knew it was inevitable.

"That dickhead's! Why don't you just chuck him out! The guy's a fucking nut and a-"

"Mr. Hester, take your seat!" Harvey bawled, seeming to realise his mistake. "There's no reason to panic! If all students follow the rules then all weekend freedoms will be retained."

Marty fell into his seat with a sound between a hiss and a scoff. John hadn't moved an inch in his. He seemed to have gone rigid.

The noise had died down to a quiet, discontented murmur. Harvey agitatedly stroked his moustache. "That will be all today. I'm confident that you will rise to the challenge as leaders of the school. You may go."

Sherlock waited outside the assembly hall until John finally emerged. He was one of the last to leave. Sherlock saw him excuse himself from his friends further up the corridor and head in the opposite direction. Sherlock impatiently waited until the rest of the grade had dispersed and then followed him.

He was almost at the stairs when there was a rough yank on the back of his jumper. Before he could react, he found himself pinned against the nearest wall. The back of his head hit the bricks painfully hard. A throng of students passed them and kept walking, barely glancing over their shoulder to where Sherlock was.

He stared at Marty Hester. His fist was balled up in the material of his school jumper so tightly that Sherlock couldn't move. "Afternoon, Hester," he said coolly.

Marty's expression of helpless loathing was always interesting. It was always as though he didn't quite have it within his power to express just how deeply his revulsion of Sherlock went. "If you ever cross me again," he said in a soft, very steady voice, "I'll personally rip your throat out. Got it?"

Sherlock was surprised it had taken this long for Marty's aggressiveness to return but it seemed to have returned with a vengeance. "Cross you?" he said.

Marty's lip curled into a sneer. An unbelievable pain burst through Sherlock's chin. He somehow managed to keep from crying out and struggled to put a hand to his wounded mouth. Marty grunted in satisfaction and released him from his grip. Sherlock grasped his mouth with both hands and watched Marty walk away without a look back.

He hurried to get out before anyone came along and saw him. The cold air stung his bloodied mouth, but he kept going. He could see John's distant figure by the stairs.

"What the hell happened?" John exclaimed as soon as he saw him.

Sherlock touched his mouth. "Nothing," he said. He could taste blood.

John gripped his hand by the wrist and tore it away. "Who the fuck did this? Tell me!"

Sherlock had never seen John so angry. Even in his present state, he felt a thrilled flicker at John's concern. "It's nothing."

John ran a thumb gently along his bottom lip. When he brought it away, it was damp with blood. "I'll kill him," he spat. "I'll kill him with my own hands!"

Sherlock grasped his arm tightly to stop him from trying to go back towards the school. "We can't afford to draw our attention to ourselves," he hissed. "It'll heal. He was just blowing off steam."

John stared at him, anger and agitation fighting for dominance in his fey blue eyes. "You draw too much attention to yourself as it is."

Sherlock couldn't help touching his cheek. "You're the one bringing _contraband_ into the school."

John blushed prettily. "They think it's yours."

"Let them," Sherlock said softly.

He kissed him briefly on the forehead. John's eyes flickered up to his, clearly still ill at ease.

"We should go back to class," he said grudgingly.

Sherlock slipped his cold fingers into John's and held them tight. "I suppose. Will you come to me tonight?"

John went a bit pinker. "Of course."

They walked back towards the school. They let go of each other's hands when they neared the entrance. Sherlock glanced at John's pale features. Sometimes it was better that he was ignorant of some things.

He lifted a hand to his sore mouth. Definitely some things.

\--

Sherlock insisted John went to the common room that night until the dorms were quiet enough for him to slip into Sherlock's room. He had to wait until Billy was asleep as well, but luckily he was a very deep sleeper.

Sherlock said it was because John needed to make sure he didn't raise suspicions by being absent too often, but John had a feeling it was because Sherlock didn't want him commenting on his mouth. John had completely intended to find Marty and beat him senseless but he had come to (grudgingly) accept Sherlock's argument that it would be stupid and irrational. He had to keep the facade going, it was still early days.

Marty and Billy and a couple of the other boys were playing poker at the table. The rest were watching television. John spotted Ben sitting by himself in the furthest arm chair.

John was summoned to join the card game but he shrugged them off and sat with Ben. He could hardly look at Marty without wanting to punch him in the face.

Ben didn't speak when he sat down beside him and didn't look up. John shifted in his seat, trying to think of something to break the silence with. He realised too late that he may have been interrupting someone who didn't want to be spoken to.

He sat in awkward silence for a few minutes, staring at the television without watching it and wishing he had just told Sherlock to shove it and stayed far, far away.

He finally got up the nerve to say something and remarked, somewhat sheepishly, about the cold weather. Ben jerked in his seat as though he hadn't even realised someone was near him and turned to look at him. His expression wasn't displeased but neither was it particularly friendly.

"Yeah, it's fucking freezing," he said gruffly, rearranging himself in his armchair and sending a strange look towards the party at the poker table.

John looked over as well. Marty was getting up, saying something very audibly about needing to "take a leak". He made his way out, winking at John as he passed him, though it only made John's desire to hurt him stronger. Billy and the others continued to play for a while until, inevitably, the subject of the assembly was raised.

"So who's do you think it was?" said someone, John didn't see who.

"Holmes's for sure," Billy growled, not taking his eyes off his cards. "He's the only faggot in the school."

John thought that that was an ironic comment as there was a "faggot" sitting in the same room as him that very moment.

"Fucking disgusting," one of the boys at the table remarked.

"Maybe it was bought as a joke," he interjected feebly, but no one seemed to hear him.

"Marty's going to teach that bastard a lesson anyway," Ben spoke suddenly, taking him by surprise.

John glanced around as a few heads nodded in agreement. "What do you mean?" he said sharply, feeling an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach.

Ben glanced at him. "He's pissed. You don't piss Marty off unless you want to get fucked up."

"Good riddens!" barked Billy. "Can we play for fuck's sake? Who gives a fuck about fucking Holmes."

John stared at the floor. He felt sick. But Sherlock knew what he was doing. He could handle Marty. John sat a bit straighter in his chair. Sherlock had proven he wasn't frightened of Marty.

But Marty had friends. And Sherlock didn't. John sunk lower in his chair again, gnawing on his bottom lip. He hoped that that wasn't what it came down to.

_ End of Chapter Twelve _


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock could hardly believe that he was standing in the freezing cold, wrapped up in half of the clothes he owned, in the middle of a soggy playing field when he could have been wrapped up in bed with  _In Cold Blood_  and a cup of tea. It was madness.

No, this was football. And Redverse parents took their football very, very seriously. Or so the furious yells and dismayed moans around him seemed to suggest. It certainly suggested that Redverse was playing unusually badly.

Not that Sherlock could see much more of the pitch than an obscure green square from where he was standing. He had arrived late and the only space left was either behind the rabble of Redverse parents or with the Redverse students sitting on the grass. Personally, Sherlock preferred to suffer the Redverse parents' self-satisfied comments than those of their children.

But Sherlock hadn't come to the game to get a lesson in football. He didn't understand the rules beyond the most basic awareness that goals, which felt like they happened about once every few hours if you were very lucky, were the highlight. There had only been one goal tonight and that had been the opposite team's.

He could occasionally see a flash of flaxen hair through the maze of various elbows and shoulders but he had no idea if it was John. He could imagine that John looked pretty good in his football uniform about now. He felt it was pretty masochistic of him to come to the football game and then deprive himself of the only perk- his boyfriend in shorts. But he'd catch a good glimpse of him at halftime.

He didn't know how else John had even convinced him to come to witness this slow torture. Oh right, yes he did. It was John's last game before the school holidays and he'd _promised_. More accurately he just couldn't stand John's hangdog expression any longer. John had been moping about for days, refusing to tell Sherlock what was wrong and evading all his attempts to wrangle the truth out of him.

Naturally, he hadn't done a particularly good job of it and Sherlock had quickly realised that it had little to do with football and a lot to do with the upcoming holidays. It didn't take a genius, well, much of a genius, to guess that John's constant bouts of dejection every time the subject of Christmas was raised were not unrelated.

The thought of having John all to himself for Christmas was delicious, but Sherlock wanted to be careful. He didn't know how John would react to his asking him to stay. John was skittish when it came to their relationship at the best of times. Besides that, Sherlock's own home life was hardly the stuff of fairytales. Especially since his parents had decided to remove themselves completely and retreat to Bath to avoid the onslaught of relatives. Leaving their two sons to entertain a multitude of Holmes relations. Sherlock dreaded it more than death.

"Oh! For God's sake!" someone howled into Sherlock's ear.

He turned to see the anguished expression of a dumpy woman behind him. He realised that she wasn't the only one crying out in disbelief. There seemed to be an unending chorus of "I don't believe it!"s and "what the hell was that!"s.

Sherlock untangled himself from the mass and walked around to where the younger students were seated on the grass. It was a lot easier to see the pitch from here. The first thing he saw was John walking away from the goal, gripping his forehead.

Sherlock's eyes wandered past him and past the goal to where the opposing team's goalie was walking back to the pitch with the ball tucked under his arm. Sherlock looked back at John. Close behind him one of the players from the other team was wearing a sneer that Sherlock did not like. Half a second later, Sherlock saw him say something and it was clearly aimed in John's direction. There were smirks from his team-mates and furious snarls from the Redverse players. John jerked around, his face very red.

But he didn't have time to retaliate. Billy Pip ploughed past him and yanked the boy up by the front of his shirt. He then landed a punch to his jaw that would have floored an averagely sized man. The boy crumpled to his knees, blood pouring from his nose and his eyes widened in bewilderment. He didn't seem to know what had hit him.

"Ref!" someone cried out, Sherlock didn't see who.

There was chaos as the referee went charging towards them, whistle blaring. The Redverse students dragged Billy off the smaller boy with some difficulty. Sherlock watched in mild interest while the referee hollered at the top of his lungs into Billy's face and then produced a red card, holding it up in the air like a standard. The other boy had limped off the field, averting his eyes from John's calm gaze.

There was a furious wave of 'boos' from around Sherlock as they realised what had happened, and triumphant claps from the parents of the opposing team, safely clumped into a corner on the opposite side of the pitch.

The game continued, though Sherlock got the feeling that Redverse wasn't going to recover from its humiliation. John certainly looked very pale, despite the swift retribution dealt to his oppressor. Sherlock couldn't help wondering what the boy had said to make John go so red.

"What the hell are you doing here, Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced at Anderson. The boy was wrapped up in an expensive looking trench coat that was so large on him that it only served to accentuate his rattish features.

"Thinking of trying out for the team?" Anderson chided, following his gaze to the pitch. "I don't know if they'd want you. They need someone they can trust in the changing rooms, as well as on the pitch-"

Sherlock looked at him so sharply that Anderson almost took a step back. He muttered something unintelligible and scurried away. Sherlock turned his attention back to the game. The referee's whistle suddenly blasted for halftime. Sherlock watched John slow down where he was and stop. He was breathing hard. His hair was damp with sweat and he was flushed pink. Sherlock couldn't help having the carnal thought that that was what he would look like after they eventually made love.

He watched John walk over to the benches with his team. Billy was already slumped at the end of one, looking like a saggy red bag of flour from where Sherlock was standing. He said nothing to any of his teammates and they said nothing to him. In fact, they seemed rather disinclined to say anything at all. John was the only one speaking. Being the captain, Sherlock supposed it must have fallen to him to try and patch up his team for the second half. It seemed a fairly hefty task going by their moody expressions.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw someone walking across the empty pitch. He was a shortish man in a suit, with mustard coloured hair that looked familiar in its neat, boyish cut.

Sherlock watched him approach the Redverse team, his head bowed as though he was speaking in a lowered tone to just one of the assembled group. A moment later, he walked away and John was following him. They went some distance, the man's hand wrapped around John's forearm. The rest of the team seemed too wrapped up in their impending defeat to care what John was doing.

As soon as they were alone, the man began speaking to John in a rapid, agitated stream. Sherlock was standing some fifty yards away but he had enough experience to know when someone was extremely angry. His grip was tight on John's arm and he jabbed the air with such violence that Sherlock thought he might accidentally hit himself across the face.

John didn't look up once and it was difficult to tell whether he was listening or not. The man's conversation gradually got more animated, more irritable until John finally yanked himself from his grip and marched back to the rest of the team. The man stood motionless where he was for a few minutes and then turned and rejoined the crowd.

Sherlock barely paid attention to the second half of the game. It was already clear by the ill expression on John's face that they were going to lose, and forty-five minutes later they did. For the first time in many years, Redverse lost a game. The only thing that seemed to rescue them from a defeat of humiliating proportions was the Redverse goalie who rebuffed at least five attempts by the opposite team to score.

Sherlock arced around the gaggle of parents and spotted John some ten yards off, walking with the same suit clad, mustard haired man as before. His back was hunched, his bag was hanging limply from one hand. He was still panting from the game.

He saw him glance over his shoulder towards his team amongst the rabble. Sherlock looked over as well and saw that Marty seemed to be the only one still with the ability to talk. The other team were swallowed amongst a group of triumphant parents at the opposite end of the pitch. The Redverse parents were beginning to make their separate ways back to their cars, most of them seemed to have nothing to say to their offspring.

Sherlock could understand their disbelief. After a lifetime of merely expecting victory and always getting it, it must have been a shock to realise that their sons- and their captain were not infallible.

Sherlock was close enough now that he could hear their conversation. Well, John's father (it was fairly obvious now who he was) was talking in an almost constant stream but John didn't seem inclined to respond. Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was eavesdropping and that John would not have wanted him to overhear this but his curiosity outweighed his conscience. As it often did.

"Just completely disappointing, John..." John's father was saying, with a glance over his shoulder towards the dispersing parents. "What the hell got into you? I've never seen your footwork so clumsy. Have you been practising at all this week? You're the captain, John. You know it's your responsibility to ensure that the team has all the practices they need. Maybe you need to have a practice every night-"

"Dad, if we had a practice every night we'd have no time to study and we'd all fail school," John said patiently, in a voice Sherlock had never heard him use.

"That's what life is like!" his father said agitatedly. "You have to _learn_ to balance things, John. Do you think that I can just neglect my duties because I might not have time for something else? It's not the way it's done, son."

John was silent. His hand was twisted so tightly around the strap of his bag that his knuckle had gone white.

"You had just better be careful," his father said heavily at length, realising that his son had nothing else to say. "They want a dedicated, competent captain. If you neglect it now, you may never-"

John looked at him. "Dad, where's mum?"

His father's hand slipped off his shoulder.

"She's not feeling well, John," he said gruffly, tugging at the collar of his coat. "If you have an away game a bit closer to home maybe she'll come down to see you. It's just too far for her to travel."

He gave an uncomfortable cough and glanced around again. This time his eyes landed on Sherlock. His pale eyebrows rose. He leant down and said something into John's ear that Sherlock overheard clearly as: "friend of yours?".

John jerked around. He stared at Sherlock with a mixture of uncertainty and embarrassment. His father was staring at him as well. John seemed to recover himself and hastily came over to him.

"What are you doing here?" he said quietly, looking uncomfortably over his shoulder to where his father was watching them.

"You wanted me to come," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Is that your father?"

"No-I mean yes, he is... I-" John stammered.

Sherlock looked over at him. "Good evening, Mr. Watson. I'm Sherlock."

John's father hurried over to him and stuck out a thick and slightly callused hand for him to shake. "Nice to know you... eh, Sherlock. You a friend of John's? Good to hear. Sorry to run out on you, but I have to go." He said all of this without taking his eyes off John for a moment.

John looked very briefly at him. "Bye."

Mr. Watson gave his son's shoulder a quick squeeze and marched away across the wet grass. Sherlock stared after him, the curiosity refusing to simmer down inside of him.

Presently, he felt John's hand grasp his arm. Sherlock looked at him as he was steered back towards the school and away from possible onlookers.

"What are you doing?" John hissed.

"I was waiting for you," Sherlock said calmly. "So that was your father?"

"Yes," John said irritably. "I think we've established that. Why were you spying on me?"

"I wasn't spying," Sherlock replied. "I happened to be within earshot. Besides," he added, when he saw John's agitated expression, "I didn't hear anything." It was a lie, but Sherlock was beginning to regret stirring this amount of distress in John.

John looked at him as though he didn't know whether to believe him or not. They had reached the stairs. They both stopped and looked back. The distant red figures of John's teammates were illuminated by the floodlights.

"I should probably go back and see the team," John said with a sigh. "They're not happy, to say the least." He gripped his forehead with a hand. "Fuck, if I hadn't screwed that goal... We could have at least equalized."

"What did that guy say to get you so upset anyway?" Sherlock said, studying John's face.

John opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Nothing much. I couldn't really hear him," he said, looking away.

Sherlock decided not to push the subject when John was already so strung out. "Alright," he said. "I'll see you later then."

"Bye."

Sherlock stood by the base of the stairs and watched him walk back. He didn't look over over his shoulder and Sherlock got the feeling that he was already rehearsing his consolation speech in his head.

\--

John couldn't sleep. He had felt tired when he'd put his head on the pillow some two or three hours beforehand but now he could do nothing but toss and turn, making himself increasingly sweaty under the covers.

The first loss of his life had hit him harder than he had thought it would. He hated football. He shouldn't have cared whether he won or lost, but the disappointment of his teammates and their misdirected anger towards Billy and the referee and the opposite team had affected him more than he had anticipated.

He turned onto his stomach for easily the hundredth time that night and stared across to Billy's digital clock on the windowsill. It was well past midnight. He buried his face into his pillow with a frustrated growl.

His father's attempts to critique his failure had been the icing on the cake. He might as well have just told John to his face that no matter how hard he studied it didn't mean shit because the only reason Redverse had taken him in the first place was because he made their school look good. He had seen the sour expression on Principal Harvey's face as he had shaken the opposing team's captain's hand. It was the expression of a man who thought he had fixed the race to win but had just watched his horse jump the barrier into the crowd.

John couldn't stand it. He kicked the covers off of him and crawled down the bed to his desk. He snatched his phone up and unlocked it. No messages. He felt a disappointed pang. More than part of him had hoped Sherlock would message him out of the blue, maybe just to see if he was ok. Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't really do spontaneous texts, unless they were a set of instructions for where and when they were going to meet next. He hadn't seen Sherlock since the football game. He didn't know how much Sherlock had overheard of John's and his father's conversation, but he felt uneasy. Part of him dreaded what Sherlock would think of him if he knew the extent of John's weaknesses. He didn't know half of it.

He took his phone back to bed and pulled the covers over his head. He opened a blank message. He hesitated, staring at the slowly blinking line over the words _Type to Compose._ He couldn't explain anything in a text, so he wrote something different.

_ Coming down to see you. Can't sleep. _

He dropped his phone and hastily slipped out of the covers. He gave a compulsive shiver against the cold and grabbed his cardigan from his desk chair. He glanced down at his lower half. He was only wearing a pair of grey boxer briefs, his pyjamas were in the wash. He considered changing into jeans, but then decided against it. Sherlock wouldn't care. To say the least.

He quietly passed Billy's snoring form. Outside in the corridor the silence was thick, the slightest creaking of the plumbing seemed to echo around the narrow walls. All he could see in front of him was an endless trail of faint, orangey lights disappearing eventually into complete darkness.

He waited every moment for a floorboard to creak and betray him, but the treads were unusually kind to him and he crept silently up to Sherlock's door. He remembered too late that he had forgotten to bring his phone with him but he was confident that Sherlock was too prudent to message him back in the middle of the night and risk waking his roommate.

He knocked very quietly on Sherlock's door and waited. He couldn't help glancing over his shoulder into the gloom and giving a shiver. He thought it would be too late for teachers to be skulking about but since Harvey's outburst concerning the school dumpster, the teachers seemed to have taken it upon themselves to police the boys' every move. They patrolled the corridors until midnight and anyone caught out of bed was given a week's worth of detentions and a lecture about responsibility.

John knocked again, a little louder. He knew that if Sherlock didn't answer, he wouldn't be able to do anything but go back to his own room. He couldn't risk calling to him at this time of the night. He felt his heart sink. He had really been counting on Sherlock answering. He thought if he had learnt anything, it was that Sherlock didn't consider sleeping a particularly important past-time.

Feeling miserable, he turned to go back to his room. Almost at the same time he heard the door open behind him. He jerked around and found Sherlock peering out at him, wearing a grey jumper and pale purple pyjama trousers. He looked pale and half of his hair was sticking up, suggesting he had been lying down before John interrupted him. He wordlessly motioned to him.

John hastened inside and Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"What's the meaning of thi-"

Sherlock broke off as John forced himself into his arms. He nestled his head into Sherlock's jumper, breathing in his smell like perfume. He felt Sherlock awkwardly put his arms around his shoulders.

"What's wrong?"

John broke away just as he felt Sherlock's arms tightening around him. "I just couldn't sleep," he said with a shrug.

He stared around the room. The covers of Sherlock's bed were not pulled back but there was a Sherlock shaped incline on the covers and an open book lying upside down on the floor beside the bed. His phone was on top of it.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be or he wouldn't have asked it.

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock said quietly, ignoring his question and going to sit on the bed.

John turned back to him, feeling a tightness in his chest that he couldn't explain. "I just needed to see you," he said desperately, wishing Sherlock didn't have to demand an explanation for everything.

Sherlock leant his head against the wall and gave him a very wry smile and said nothing. John fidgeted where he was. He saw Sherlock's eyes stray down his chest to his lower half. John suddenly felt very self-conscious in the grey boxer briefs. They really left very little to the imagination.

"So what? Did you just come here to give me a show or what?" Sherlock said through a yawn. "Not that I'm complaining-"

"Sherlock," John blustered, going to the bed just to shake off the sense that Sherlock was tracing the shape of his junk with his eyes. He sat between Sherlock's legs, his back to Sherlock's chest.

"H-hey!" Sherlock chocked. "Careful!"

John ignored him and concentrated on not concentrating on the sensation of Sherlock's thighs against his and his spread legs against the base of his spine. There was silence. Sherlock's heart was beating into his shoulder blade.

"Since when did you turn all needy?" Sherlock mumbled into his hair at length. John suddenly found his hands on his hips and tried not to squirm as all the heat in his body seemed to glide southward.

"I'm not needy," John muttered.

"Are we still playing that game where you sulk and I try to guess what's wrong?" Sherlock said flatly. "Because I'm tired of it."

"I don't sulk," John said stiffly, looking away.

"Then what to you call this business of refusing to talk to me?" Sherlock said. John could almost sense his raised eyebrows.

"Look..." John hesitated, staring down at Sherlock's slender hand against his waist. "I'm sorry about earlier on," he finished abruptly. "I was just... disappointed."

Sherlock, consciously or unconsciously, held him tighter against him. "Losing was a bigger shock than you thought it would be?"

"Yeah," John mumbled.

He wanted to add something more but he couldn't think of anything to say.

"I've heard it said that "winning isn't everything". Though I admittedly haven't been able to test that theory myself," Sherlock said mildly.

"It just feels like I'm not earning my keep when I'm not winning," John said very quickly, feeling his cheeks burn at his own candidness. "That's the only reason I'm here. They all know it. My father certainly knows it." He laughed bitterly. "They honestly wouldn't care how badly I did in my studies, because someone else- someone cleverer will pick up the pieces."

"Well, brains aren't everything," Sherlock said complacently.

"Sherlock!" John spluttered.

"Oh, you know you're not stupid," Sherlock said exasperatedly. "If you hate football so much, just quit."

"I can't!" John retorted.

"Why?"

"Because... because..." John let out a slow breath. "I just can't."

Sherlock was silent.

"Look," he said finally, "my parents... ah..." He cleared his throat. "My parents will be away for Christmas. I'll be stuck with Mycroft all holidays and I might shoot myself in the head if I don't have someone to suffer along with so..."

John's heart had already shot up about five inches in his chest, but he contained himself. He wanted Sherlock to say the words. He quietly waited.

"I was thinking... do you want to come back to mine for Christmas?" Sherlock said very quickly and with an almost audible blush.

John sat up, wrenching Sherlock's hands off of him and struggled around to face him. "You bastard!" he burst out. "When were you going to ask me exactly? Were you going to wait until the last moment? The last day before the holidays?"

He could almost have hit Sherlock for all the misery he had put him through these past few weeks, making him think all this time that he would have to spend all Christmas with his father.

"You could have said something," Sherlock said, bewildered and looking mildly concerned that John _would_ hit him. "I'm not a mind reader."

"Don't pull that crap with me," John hissed. "You knew I didn't want go back there! You were just biding your time, seeing how desperate you could make me before you asked."

Sherlock didn't reply. He watched John very closely. At length, he reached out a hand and gently touched John's chin with his fingertips. John tried to pull away but Sherlock's fingers tightened around his chin, keeping him firmly in place.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he said evenly. "Even in anger."

John flushed and looked away. "I know," he said.

They looked at each other in embarrassed silence.

Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his hand from John's chin. "Well, that's settled then. I'll email to my brother and let him know you're coming. He won't have any objections, and even if he does it hardly matters."

John nodded vaguely, staring at Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock seemed to see the direction of his gaze for he leant forward and planted a brief kiss on John's lips. John watched him as he broke away, his eyes drinking in every smooth, pale line of his face and the clash of his dark hair against his skin. John felt a faint stirring in his stomach. He traced the line of Sherlock's slender chin to the exposed white of his chest inside the V of his jumper.

Sherlock looked perfect all wrapped up in his shabby maroon jumper. John leant forward and experimentally parted Sherlock's lips with his. Sherlock didn't protest. John licked the inside of Sherlock's bottom lip and then, when Sherlock's mouth began to react to his, he caught it as gently as he could between his teeth and gave it a careful tug. He felt Sherlock go rigid against him, his hands becoming a little stiff on John's hips.

John took this as encouragement and kissed lower. He kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth and then his smooth chin and then, with his breath shaking, he kissed Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's neck was slender and pale, almost feminine. He had wanted to kiss that neck for a very long time. More than that, he had wanted to see it tremble with pleasure.

"John..." Sherlock said softly, a hand sliding through his hair and caressing his scalp with his fingertips.

John kissed the smooth, pale flesh beneath his mouth and then, struck by a sudden bold thought, licked the curve from the arch of Sherlock's collarbone to the dell behind his earlobe. Sherlock's body arched against his. He felt it and knew he had given Sherlock pleasure. More than merely arousing him, he had given Sherlock real pleasure.

He lowered his mouth to Sherlock's collarbone. He pulled back Sherlock's intruding jumper and licked along the trembling edge of bone. He was amazed to see that goosebumps had erupted on Sherlock's skin. He was even more amazed to see the two hard nubs protruding through the material. He lifted a hand to one and gently rolled it between his fingertips. Sherlock let out a whimper that sent red hot pulses down John's stomach to his crotch.

"You like that?" he said softly, glancing up at Sherlock's face. It wasn't supposed to be a taunt, but when it left his dry mouth it sounded very much like one.

A jolt went through his stomach when he saw how flushed Sherlock's features were. His eyes, which were usually so firm and steady, were hazy with lust. Sherlock's lips moved but no sound was emitted.

John cocked an eyebrow teasingly, enjoying this small taste of what felt close to dominance. "What was that?" He let his hand wander down past the taller boy's chest to his flat stomach.

Sherlock stared at him without the trace of a smile or a frown or anything that would betray what thoughts were bubbling beneath the surface of his delicate features. "Yes," he said at length.

John was far from satisfied by the calm, collected manner in which that "yes" was delivered. Sherlock still sounded so composed. He slid his hands under Sherlock's woollen jumper and urged it upwards. Sherlock obligingly raised his arms and John tugged it over his head and deposited it beside them on the bed.

Underneath, Sherlock was wearing a striped grey t-shirt, loose and made of cotton. It fell low on his chest and was stretched from use. The neckline hung so low on one side that it exposed the entire plain of his pale right shoulder.

John didn't know why but he felt compelled to touch the smooth, round sphere of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock made no sign that he had felt John's cold fingertips press against his flesh but John, who was staring intently into his face, noticed a slight flutter of his eyelashes.

Encouraged by the fact that Sherlock didn't yawn at him or suggest John might feel more comfortable lying down; he leant forward and caressed it with his lips. Sherlock's skin was warm. From looking at it John assumed it would be cold like stone. John would have made a teasing comment about it but he couldn't bring himself to speak and break the spell of Sherlock's silent compliance to his touches.

Without moving his mouth from Sherlock's skin, he slid a hand underneath his old shirt, slowly gliding it over the rising and falling plains of his stomach and chest. Sherlock's skin trembled under his touch but he did not complain of John's cold hands. John grew sufficiently courageous enough to snake out a tongue and lick the knoll of white skin beneath his lips. He felt Sherlock move abruptly underneath him and moved, thinking he had at last succeeded in repelling Sherlock with his naive attempts at pleasure.

He sat back on his heels and watched in mingled relief and apprehension as Sherlock tilted his head to one side and exposed the entire right side of his neck. Underneath the dark clumps of his hair John could see a delicate white ear, the rounded lobe clinging to the rounded edge of his prominent jaw line.

John placed a hand carefully on the mattress exposed between Sherlock's parted legs. Sherlock wasn't looking at him now; his eyes were staring past him to the opposite wall. John felt vaguely foolish leaning over him, one hand pressed into the mattress and the other against the wall to steady himself. He wobbled forward and pressed his mouth clumsily to Sherlock's ear. Before he could become self-conscious, he ran his tongue down the soft edge and let his lips tumble down to the exposed arch of Sherlock's neck. He hesitantly held out his tongue and licked a wonky line down to Sherlock's collarbone. His saliva left a glistening snail's trail on Sherlock's neck.

He pressed his lips to the moisture and gently suckled. There was a shuddery moan and John felt Sherlock's hand grasp his hair. It wasn't painful; in fact it seemed to intensify the arousal that was surging in violent spurts through him. He tilted his head with a barely suppressed gasp, tightening Sherlock's grip on his scalp. Sherlock's Adam's apple quivered against his lips.

Sherlock's free hand, which had been clinging loosely to the covers, now crept up and rested against John's waist, and then his hips. His fingers were teasingly close to the sensitive incline just below but he said nothing and made no sign that he intended to go lower. John's knee was shaking almost uncontrollably on the bed and more than once he felt he was about to lose his balance, but somehow he managed to keep upright.

He could see Sherlock's chest rising and falling out of the corner of his eye. When he was able to distinguish anything outside of the pounding in his own ears, he could hear Sherlock's breathing. He could feel his own breathing hitching in his chest and his heart beating with heavy, forceful pumps against his ribs. He leant back on his heels, releasing Sherlock's skin from his mouth.

Sherlock straightened up and looked at him; there were two splotches of pink on either of his cheeks. There were red marks on his neck and chest.

John touched the thinning material of Sherlock's shirt, twisting it gently around his fingers. His eyes lingered on the protrusion between Sherlock's legs. The flimsy pair of purple pyjamas were very thin and his erection could hardly have been more obvious if he had been naked.

John's fingers lingered under the hem of Sherlock's shirt. His heart was pumping faster and faster in his chest. Every time he and Sherlock became intimate the first thought that came into his mind was, inevitably, sex. He felt foolish at times, like a blatant cock-tease at others.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock said suddenly.

John jerked upright. He realised he had been staring at Sherlock's erection for slightly longer than what was perhaps polite.

"Sorry," he said, blushing.

"You don't look very comfortable," Sherlock remarked, eyeing John's legs.

"Huh?" John said, panic-stricken. Surely Sherlock couldn't have read his mind. He wasn't _that_ good.

"You're sitting on your legs; you'll give yourself pins and needles," Sherlock said, nodding to John's thighs.

John glanced down and then rearranged himself so he was sitting to one side with his legs tucked beside him.

"Isn't that how girls sit when they're wearing short skirts?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"How would you like me to sit then, tosser?" John said, giving him a gentle shove.

Sherlock put his hands around his waist and pulled him onto his lap. John's fingers tightened around Sherlock's shirt and he gasped softly as his erection was pinned against Sherlock's.

"You were doing so well," Sherlock murmured into his ear. "Why did you stop?"

"It's just kissing," John said awkwardly.

Sherlock licked his earlobe. "You're good at it. You shouldn't be so bashful."

"I'm not bashful," John said, pulling away. "I just feel..."

He cut off. He didn't know how to word it. He didn't know how to tell Sherlock that he needed a little bit longer. It always seemed to be a little bit longer. He dreaded the day when Sherlock told him he'd waited long enough.

He stared at Sherlock's pale collarbone, the thin material of his shirt clinging to the erect nubs of his nipples.

He got off of Sherlock's lap and knelt on the bed in front of him. Sherlock stared at him, one hand still clinging to John's hip.

"Lay down," John said.

Sherlock sent him a strange look but surprisingly obeyed. He lay against the pillow, his eyes still fixed on John's face. John let his eyes wander down Sherlock's slender figure. His eyes paused between his thighs.

Feeling incredibly foolish, he held out a hand and palmed Sherlock's sex between his fingers.

Sherlock gave a taut groan. "J-John-"

John took heart and slid it further between his thighs. He could feel the full length of Sherlock's straining cock through the material. He rubbed it beneath his palm, teasing Sherlock with the softest touch possible. He slid his other hand underneath Sherlock's shirt, tugging it upwards so that the older boy's flat, pale stomach was exposed. He stroked down from the rim of Sherlock's navel to the sensitive skin just visible above the band of his pyjamas.

He hadn't given anyone such intimate attentions before but he could tell from the increasingly rough rise and fall of Sherlock's chest that he was enjoying it. Sherlock tilted his head back further against the pillow. John felt a twinge of glee and moved his fingers underneath the band. He could feel a rough patch of Sherlock's dark pubic hair.

His heart gave a nervous flutter in his chest. He hadn't ever seen Sherlock completely unclothed before. He felt a foolish stir of anxiety. He had seen other boys undressed in the change rooms, but that was different.

He took an unsteady breath and gently peeled down the band of Sherlock's pyjamas. He couldn't look away as Sherlock's skin was revealed inch by inch. A pair of pale white boxers were revealed. He slid his fingertips underneath and tugged them away. Sherlock made a small, breathless sound as his bottom half was exposed.

John bit his lip and felt a surge of arousal pulse through his crotch. He hesitate for a moment, just drinking in the beauty of Sherlock's pale, delicate thighs. The crown of Sherlock's sex was already glistening.

John held out a hand to it and then hesitated. He glanced down at the front of his boxer briefs. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. John adored it when his hair stuck up like it was. It made Sherlock look so different to the self-controlled youth that he was in class. John pitied anyone who didn't have the pleasure of seeing Sherlock Holmes when he was glowing with arousal and happiness. All of his features were softened and his eyes seemed to lose some of their hardness and sternness.

But John was the only person in the entire school who got to see this side of him. Somehow that made him feel wildly gratified.

John forced away the goofy smile that was threatening to creep onto his lips and slid a leg over Sherlock's lap to straddle him. Their erections were pressed against each other and John had to throw a hand to his mouth to muffle himself. Sherlock moaned in unison with him but didn't have time to muffle the sound. Goosebumps erupted over John's skin. The hairs on his arms stood violently on end.

He didn't think he had ever heard such an erotic sound. He rocked his hips, purely from the hope of hearing it again. Sherlock made a strangled noise and bucked his hips up to meet John's.

The friction was amazing but John wanted more. He paused and hastily tore down his boxer briefs to his thighs. He hadn't ever been less self-conscious about revealing himself. Sherlock gave a small whimper.

"J-John... Oh..." he said weakly.

John lowered himself against Sherlock's thighs and his weeping sex. He clamped his bottom lip viciously in his teeth to keep from screaming as they were pressed together, naked flesh on naked flesh.

"Sherlock. G-God," he stammered, throwing his head back and pressing a hand to Sherlock's stomach to steady himself.

Sherlock's fingers were twisting tighter and tighter into the covers. His back was arched on such an acute angle that John couldn't believe it didn't hurt his spine.

John grinded his hips downward and was rewarded both by a violent twinge of pleasure and Sherlock's throaty cry.

"John," he said thickly, tossing his head to one side.

John gritted his teeth to keep from moaning in response and rubbed himself harder against Sherlock's thighs. The sensation was wet and slippery and hot all at the same time- and just blindingly pleasurable. His cock ached from it.

He began to roughly rub himself against Sherlock. It became more of a half-rub, half-roll of his hips as the sensation took hold of him.

"Ah-" he exclaimed, almost against his will.

He could imagine what he looked like. He could feel his shirt was soaked through with perspiration. His thighs were wet with sweat and so were Sherlock's. He thought they could be in danger of serious chafing if they kept up the same level of friction but there wasn't a nerve in John's body that intended to slow down.

Sherlock untangled one hand from the covers and pressed it around their erections, pinning them together. John moaned aloud and was certain he saw a momentary flash of triumph go across Sherlock's features. A moment later he thought he must have imagined it, Sherlock's face was damp and arranged in a taut expression that left no room for any disguised emotion.

Nonetheless, John moved a hand to Sherlock's shirt and yanking it upright. He could hardly keep his balance as it was but he determinedly moved his free hand to Sherlock's left nipple and took it between his fingers. Sherlock's eyes widened, his lips parted on their own accord as he gaped up at him. It was not an expression John had ever seen on Sherlock's face before. He was fascinated.

He rolled the erect nub between his fingers, teasingly soft and adoring the soft, breathless sounds it drew from his boyfriend's smart mouth. He almost forgot that his own groin was burning with a searing need to climax. His eyes widened as Sherlock's hands slid up his cock and grasped the sensitive crown. John looked down and saw Sherlock's pale fingers tease the glands, so casually that he could have been sharpening a pencil.

"Sher-lock-" John panted, almost grinding into Sherlock's thighs in search of the friction he seemed to need more and more of as every second went by.

Sherlock tilted his head up and, to John's astonishment and disbelief, flashed him a smirk. Then he slid his hand downwards, down the slick shaft of John's sex and down further still.

Then John saw stars.

"Oh my Go-" was the extent of John's dialogue before he orgasmed with a violence he hadn't thought himself capable of. "Oh my _God_!" he sobbed into his hand.

He felt his seed burst across Sherlock's stomach. His eyes fluttered open. He saw Sherlock staring at him with widened grey eyes. The smirk was gone. His teeth were gritted and there was an expression of something approaching complete anguish.

"S-Sherlock-" John whimpered, feeling like he may pass out.

Sherlock threw his head back against the pillow and turned his head to one side. John didn't know whether it was to hide his face from John's view or to muffle the strangled cry as he came. John saw the orgasm tear violently through Sherlock's body. Both hands were buried back in the covers of his bed, but now they were clawing so violently into the material that John thought he might tear it in two.

John jerked back just in time to avoid being hit square in the face with Sherlock's ejaculate. Something that he could only thank his football reflexes for. He tumbled backwards on the bed and stared at Sherlock, hardly able to control his violent breathing.

Sherlock struggled upright. John noted that his hands were trembling slightly. In fact his legs seemed to be trembling slightly too. He stared at John in silence, his chest heaving in the same uncontrollable fashion as John's.

John suddenly realised that he still had his underwear around his thighs. He hastily yanked them up. He was glad that he didn't feel physically capable of blushing while his body temperature was still at its current level.

Sherlock followed his lead and dressed. His shirt didn't seem to have gained much benefit from their ministrations. It was very damp and was stretched even more violently out of shape.

"You need new pyjamas," John noted, before realising that he had just broken their afterglow with a fairly mundane observation.

"Golly, can you teach me to notice small, minute details like that?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Shut up," John grumbled. He lay on his back, staring blearily at the ceiling. "What the fuck was that anyway?"

"That is called an "orgasm", John," Sherlock said slowly. "Need me to demonstrate it for you again?"

He leant over John, his eyes glinting.

"No," John said, laughing. "You'll kill me, you nutter."

"Aw, poor little virgin," Sherlock said fondly, stroking a finger down the slightly upturned tip of John's nose.

He lay down next to him, graciously not saying anything about being crammed next to the cold wall in his own bed until John finally noticed and shifted over for him.

"Sherlock," John said at length, when he sensed that Sherlock might be in danger of nodding off.

"Mmm?" Sherlock said, with his head resting against John's shoulder.

"Do you care that I'm..." John rolled the word around in his mouth. "A virgin?" he blurted out.

Sherlock was silent and still for a minute. John thought for a moment that he'd upset him, but then he rolled onto his side, peering at John with an expression difficult to read. "Why would I?" he said, frowning. "Does it bother you?"

"No..." John said hesitantly. "It's just... you seem... sort of-"

"I'm not a virgin," Sherlock said bluntly. "But that doesn't mean I'm some sex-crazed maniac who's only dating you for a quick fuck."

"No! I know," John said hastily. "I... I don't know how to word it..." He felt increasingly foolish, gazing up at Sherlock's intelligent features. Sherlock must have thought he was such a dunce.

Sherlock rested a hand on his chest. "I'll wait for as long as you need," he said.

John nodded offhandedly, averting his eyes to the wall behind Sherlock's head so he didn't do something embarrassing like turn bright red. "I just need a little more time..." he said softly. "You won't be waiting forever. I promise-"

"Don't promise me you'll be ready soon," Sherlock said abruptly. "There's no sense in it."

John looked at him with a slight frown. Sometimes he got the feeling he was hiding something about himself that he was still not able to share with John. But John supposed that if Sherlock could wait, so could he.

_ End of Chapter Thirteen _


	14. Chapter 14

John called home to tell his parents of his changed Christmas plans but wasn't sorry that he only reached the answer phone. He could anticipate his mother's disappointment and all his father's questions and his inability to understand that his son didn't want to come home.

When he sat down to breakfast with his team for the last time for that term it was difficult not to wonder what his teammates would have done to him if they knew that he was going to spend the holidays in the company of Sherlock Holmes. He barely dared to speak while he sat with them, he didn't completely trust himself not to blurt it out loud in his own dizzy sense of relief and happiness.

Afterwards he went back to his room to pack the remainder of his belongings. He had packed and unpacked his bag at least three times. He kept thinking of things he wanted to take or things that suddenly seemed stupid to take. Billy wandered in soon after and shoved a handful of clothes into his backpack and spent the remainder of the morning lounging on his bed, playing with his phone and occasionally making conversation that fortunately required very little input from John, whose anxiety was gradually building with every pair of jeans he packed.

"We better get to assembly," John said, finally standing at five minutes to midday and staring down at his freshly packed bags with a small glint of satisfaction.

Billy grunted. "'Spose. Don't know why we have to go to these stupid fucking things."

Every year there was a final assembly before Christmas where they received the usual blurb about the dignity of the school and their responsibility in upholding it wherever they may be and a prayer from Father Theobald, who could rarely resist lapsing into a longwinded sermon when he had the entire school as a captive audience. What was supposed to be a twenty minute last hoorah usually dragged into an hour long conference of miserable proportions.

The corridor was choked with students and no matter how Billy might swear or threaten they couldn't push through and found themselves stranded amongst a seething mass of grey uniforms. John soon found himself separated from Billy by a throng of grade ten students.

The crowd was moving slow and he could hardly move in anything more than a shuffle. Without Billy beside him to force a path through he couldn't do much more than wait and hope that he got to the assembly hall before teatime.

At the dormitory stairs he found himself jammed amongst a gaggle of grade eight students with their ridiculously large school backpacks still adorned so that every time they moved too quickly to the left or right they almost knocked out anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind them. The older students expressed their irritation at this by either kicking the boys' bags with no small amount of force or shoving them into walls and promptly taking their place in the procession.

On the stairs John felt his phone buzz in his pocket and managed to struggle it out with one hand.

_ Ditch the assembly. I'm in the dark room. _

John hastily stuck it back into his pocket and glanced around. He didn't need much convincing to skip assembly but the prospect of spending it with Sherlock sweetened the deal.

He spotted a tiny glimpse of corridor through the mass of bodies and clawed his way out of the mob, feeling like he was trying to elbow his way through a moving, seething forest of limbs.

The route to the dark room was in the opposite direction to the assembly hall and was almost deserted. John expected that his friends would wonder where he got to but he was getting better at lying to them. The last couple of weeks of school had been a stressful exercise of trying balance his friends on one hand and Sherlock on the other, and it felt like as soon as he moved too far in one direction the entire set of scales threatened to collapse.

The door of the dark room was closed and the ground floor corridor was empty. John tried the handle and found it unlocked. He slipped inside and was immediately overwhelmed by the almost gelatinous darkness.

It suddenly struck him just how dangerous it could be for someone to get stuck in here if they didn't know where the light switch was. John wasn't entirely sure he could have found it himself as he groped his way to the bench.

His fingertips came into contact with something smooth and soft and he jerked back when a cold hand gripped his wrist.

"Sherlock?" he said uncertainly.

He heard a dry laugh. "And that is why you don't go wandering blindly into dark, small spaces without knowing who's inside."

John relaxed at the sound of the familiar voice. He heard Sherlock shuffle across and switch the light on. They were bathed in sickly yellow light. Sherlock wasn't in his uniform. He had a black trench coat on that John had never seen. His cheeks were red and he smelt faintly of cigarette smoke, suggesting what he had been up to before his text to John.

He leant against the bench, flashing John a smirk. "Packed?"

"Yes," John replied, feeling sheepish as to just how many times. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as they open the gates," Sherlock replied. He reached out a hand and brushed John's fringe back, looking closely at his face. "We'll take a cab."

"All the way to London? That'll be expensive," John remarked.

Sherlock made a non-committal sound in his throat, which John took to mean that someone other than himself was in charge of that particular detail.

"Did you call your parents?" Sherlock said, looking sideways at him.

John shrugged. "They didn't pick up so I left a message."

He left it at that. Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't comment.

John stepped around to face him and slid a knee between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock smiled wanly at him.

"Trying to distract me?"

John raised a hand and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "What makes you say that?"

Sherlock shook his head but leant forward to kiss him. His cold hand cupped the base of John's neck, pulling him firmer against him and embedding John's knee deeper between his thighs.

When Sherlock broke away, John took advantage of the difference in height and lay siege to Sherlock's exposed, white neck. John took great pleasure in raising red welts on Sherlock's perfect complexion and knowing that it branded him as his. To own such a perfect concoction of human flesh was difficult not to be proud of. But to possess the affections of such a brilliant mind was far more satisfying.

Especially when he could excite such eager moans and gasps from his almost-lover's mouth. John was not unaware of the improvement in his ministrations, though he still enjoyed pretending as though he had no idea that his clumsy, untrained mouth could ever incite such excitement in Sherlock. It sent Sherlock wild and only encouraged John to play the part more enthusiastically.

He moved a hand inside Sherlock's coat to his woollen pullover underneath and could feel his heart beating against his fingers. Sherlock's nipple was already obviously hard below the soft material.

Not that Sherlock couldn't play that game with just as much skill. If not more. As soon as John thought he had the upper hand, Sherlock would turn the tables on him. John often got the feeling that Sherlock was only compliant when he wanted to be, but was always in control of the situation. John could have him pinned to a bed, writhing and begging for him and a moment later he'd flash John a _look_ and John would know that he didn't have a hope in hell.

John would never admit just how much that turned him on.

Just as they were getting slightly too hot and heavy for a school dark room, Sherlock gently shoved him away, fishing John's hand out of the front of his jeans. "We better head back to the dorms now if we want to avoid the rush."

John felt like his cheeks were on fire and there was nothing more he wanted to do than shove his hand back down Sherlock's unbuttoned trousers but he controlled himself. With difficulty. "Fine," he mumbled, stepping away and flattening his hair.

They went back to the dorms together. Something they wouldn't usually dare to do, but no one was about today. Every student and teacher was in the assembly hall. In the dorms, Sherlock went along to his room and John went to his to wait until the bell rang, finally signalling the end of school.

\--

Sherlock glanced once more around his room, overwhelmed by the feeling that he had forgotten something. He glanced at his packed bags and at his stripped bed and his strangely empty desk. It seemed like a different place to the one he had returned to three months beforehand.

He couldn't begin to wonder how a misfit like him had managed to ensnare John Watson. He didn't let himself wonder about it. Sometimes it felt like he was trapped in the centre of another wet dream and at any moment he'd awake, damp and panting and as far from John as he could possibly be.

He gave himself a shake and collected up his bags and began the tiresome journey down to the front gates. The corridors were congested with students, all nauseatingly overexcited and boisterous. He got collided into more than once and had to grit his teeth to keep from using his bags as battering rams. The fact that he could seriously injure someone barely constituted as a con.

"Hey! Holmes!"

Sherlock ignored the call and kept going. He had been flying surprisingly low under the radar these past couple of weeks due to the end-of-year excitement and it was somewhat irritating to think that someone was going to have a go on the last day of school.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" he snapped, when he felt a hand grip his shoulder.

He turned around and found himself face to face, not with Marty Hester, but with Mr. Hurst. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock questioningly.

"Sorry. Thought you were someone else," Sherlock said, eyeing the slab of paper in the young teacher's hand.

"Just thought I'd give you this back before the end of term," Hurst said, holding it out. "Thought it'd give you some time to edit."

Sherlock stared at it and then slowly took it back. He glanced at the cover; it was John's play. "Oh," he said, not sure whether he felt pleased that he now had a rival for John's attention over Christmas.

"It's very good," Hurst said, studying his face with the typical unsubtlety of a teacher. "You and John did well. There's just a few things that could be improved but it's got potential."

Sherlock looked up at him. "Thanks... I'll tell John." He hesitated. "When I see him," he added clumsily.

Hurst nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Good. Have a nice Christmas."

Sherlock just nodded and watched the teacher disappear back into the stream of students. He thumbed through the play as he walked down to the gates and found it littered with red pen. It would take a lot of work to get through it all. He felt a pang of selfish regret.

Sherlock wasn't the only one waiting for a companion at the school gates, but he and John had organized to meet under a nearby tree in the field opposite to avoid notice. Though they were probably safer on this day than on any other.

Sherlock glanced down at the play again. The desire to just stuff it in his bag and not tell John he had it was overwhelmingly strong. He knew it was childish and selfish but after all they had been through he just wanted John to focus on himself and, admittedly, _him._

Minutes later John's familiar figure appeared from the gates, but he was not alone. Marty Hester's brassy head was unmistakeable even from a distance. Sherlock was surprised to see them together. John's opinion of Marty had taken a dramatic dive in recent times. He didn't mention it, but Sherlock knew it. John clearly didn't realise that Sherlock was perfectly aware of what he was looking for when he studied his mouth, nose and eyes with decided unsubtlety every few days.

It was impossible to keep his eyes on them for longer than a few seconds without a gaggle of students hurtling past, hiding them both from view. They were clearly saying something more than just "Merry Christmas" to each other from the time it took them to part.

At length, Marty left with the other students. John glanced around him, clearly ensuring that none of his other teammates were lurking about.

Sherlock took another look at the play and shoved it into his backpack just as John reached him, looking vaguely red in the face. "Hey," he smiled. "Ready to go?"

"What the hell did Hester want?"Sherlock asked, deciding that he'd be honest if John was.

John glanced around, flushing redder. "Nothing. Just stupid stuff. You know... football stuff," he said lamely, tugging at his jumper.

Sherlock stared at him, caught between disbelief that John would lie and disbelief that John thought he could get away with lying to _him_. "What did he say?" he said, looking sharply at John's face.

"Nothing!" John said exasperatedly. "Can we go? I just want to get out of this place."

Sherlock touched his bag, hesitating for a moment. A corner of the play was sticking out of the zipper. "Yeah, ok," he said, swinging it onto his back. "Let's go."

The taxi ride took roughly an hour and a half, discounting a petrol stop and a bathroom break. John had a, Sherlock _refused_ to call it cute, tendency to fall asleep almost immediately on a car ride and Sherlock was "forced" to lend his shoulder as a pillow more than once. While John slept, Sherlock watched the landscape change around them and began to feel that the magnetic drag of Redverse became less and less the further they drove from it.

London was exactly as he had left it, but the sight of buildings and people and cars was a welcome relief from the green emptiness of Redverse. London was where his thoughts seemed most logical and manageable. He felt a satisfied twinge.

He nudged John awake as they were crossing Westminster Bridge. John looked around blearily, his hair dishevelled and half his cheek damp with saliva, which had been transferred onto Sherlock's coat.

"Nice, John," he said, plucking a tissue from his sleeve to dab it dry.

"Sorry," John said hazily, through a yawn.

He glanced around him with foggy interest. They were passing St. James's Park. They'd be arriving at any moment and John looked like he had just gone through the wash.

"John, flatten your hair," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

John sent him a strange look but obediently attempted to flatten the cowlick that had formed while he had been drooling all over Sherlock's coat. Sherlock impatiently leant across and patted it down himself.

He glanced down at John's woollen pullover, t-shirt and jeans. John looked up at him amusedly. "Are you checking me out?"

Sherlock sat back in his seat and said nothing. Up until now the thought that he was bringing John to meet his brother had been an almost distant part of the equation. But now they were here and he felt wholly unprepared for their meeting.

He bit the inside of his mouth and stared out of the window as the familiar streets began to filter in around them. Kensington was an affluent nest of tall, white terrace houses and for the first thirteen years of his life it had been all he knew.

The cab came to a halt and Sherlock glanced across at John with his heart in his throat.

"This the place, mate?" the cabbie said over his shoulder.

"This is the place," Sherlock replied, digging in his bag for the money his parents had wired him for the trip. As much as he disliked accepting their charity, he couldn't afford not to.

The house looked very much like every other house on the street. It was a tower of white stone with a black iron gate placed like a square jaw between it and the footpath. There was a small, very clean brick yard without flowers or ornaments beneath the bay window. He didn't feel any particular bond to his home, despite having lived there for the entirety of his life. He didn't have the usual feelings of affection and attachment to it, like other people seemed to have. To him it was just a building, like a shopping centre or a doctor's practice or Redverse School for Boys.

"This is nice," John remarked, as they struggled up to the door with their bags. "I've never been in this part of London."

Sherlock glanced at him. He had to warn him.

He turned away, rolling the words around in his mouth. "Look, John... my brother he-"

He hesitated, glancing down to where the cab was gliding away from curb.

"Look," John said, with a wry smile, "I won't say anything to embarrass you. I know how it is."

Sherlock started. "What?"

"I won't do anything that embarrasses you," John said again. "If you like, we can pretend we're not even together."

Sherlock couldn't even begin to explain just how badly the attempt to pretend _anything_ in front of his brother would fail.

"No, it's not that," he said hurriedly. "It really isn't. Just be yourself. I'm sure... it'll be fine."

He couldn't have sounded any less convincing if he'd tried. He unlocked the door with the key that was always in the front pocket of his backpack and they went inside. There was a long, bare hallway leading from the front door to the kitchen at the back of the house. The walls were white like the house itself and there weren't any ornaments or paintings, just a wooden umbrella stand by the door and three iron pegs for coats.

"We'd better go straight up and see my brother," he said quietly, leaving his bags by the door and signalling John to do the same.

John looked at him searchingly but complied. Sherlock led him upstairs to where he knew his brother would be holed up. The second floor housed a bathroom, his parents' study, his parents' bedroom and a library, which had long since been commandeered as Mycroft's personal living space. He was barely ever out of it during the day and Sherlock didn't know where he went after dinner. He preferred not to know and he certainly would never ask.

Sherlock hesitated at the door. Every time he found himself here, he felt like a child again. But this time he had John next to him and he wasn't certain whether that gave him strength or took it all from him.

He had barely lifted his hand to knock when there was a brisk:

"Enter!"

Sherlock hesitated for a half a second and then hastily entered, almost tripping over the doorstep when he did.

The room looked very much like it had when he'd left. There were bookcases lining the East and West walls, crammed full of dusty books that would probably never be read. There was a single, large arched window behind a mahogany desk covered in newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, empty glasses and open books.

His brother was sitting with his feet up and crossed on the table. He was obscured by _The Times_. The two hands clutching it were well manicured.

"Mycroft," he said quietly, more than half of him wishing he had never brought John here.

Mycroft folded the newspaper and tossed it on the table in front of him. He lowered his legs, looking between them with a would-be unreadable expression.

"Sherlock," he said with a genuine smile, though Sherlock knew it wasn't from the joy of seeing him. His eyes flickered towards John and it widened. "I'm sorry. I don't think we've met."

He slunk out of his chair and came across, sticking out a hand for John to awkwardly shake. Sherlock inwardly cringed. He knew painfully well of all the things his brother would be gathering from John's appearance and his mannerisms and his facial expressions. Every second that went by, Mycroft knew a little bit more about John and he hadn't even opened his mouth yet. And God knew what would happen when he did.

He looked at Sherlock with barely concealed amusement. "So what brings you to our neck of the woods- ah, so sorry didn't catch your name?"

"John," John said hurriedly.

"Joh- _n_ ," Mycroft said it like he was inserting a throat lozenge directly onto his tongue and sucking it hard. "It will be such a pleasure having decent company here for a change I'm sure."

"Yes-I- thank you so much for having me," John said clumsily.

Sherlock inwardly sighed.

"Not at all! I'm sure we will thoroughly enjoy _having_ you," Mycroft said with a syrupy laugh.

Sherlock tightly clenched his fists in the hope that the temptation to bring them into contact with his brother's jaw would lessen to a bearable extent.

Mycroft leant against his desk and crossed his arms, his eyes dancing with glee that no one but Sherlock had the misfortune of being able to distinguish. "It's not often that Sherlock brings a friend home," he said, his eyes flickering back and forth between them. "Ever, in fact."

"Oh?" John said uncomfortably. "I'm surprised."

"Are you?" Mycroft smirked. "Perhaps you can offer something that the others can't-"

Sherlock's knuckle gave a sharp crack.

"Ok, that's enough," he snapped, before he could stop himself.

Mycroft looked at him, his expression blank. "No need to be testy, Sherlock." He raised his eyebrows at John. "Not in front of your friend."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could feel his cheeks burning. He was letting him get to him and Mycroft knew it. "Is the guest room made up?"

"Yes, it's all ready," Mycroft replied lightly. "If John happens to need it."

John sent him a sharp look, as though he wasn't entirely certain what Mycroft meant. Sherlock knew exactly what he meant.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

He opened the door for John.

John smiled at Mycroft. "It was good to meet you."

The corners of Mycroft's mouth jerked up. "Pleasure was all mine, John."

Sherlock shot his brother a cool look over his shoulder and followed him out.

"John!"

John jerked his head back towards the library door. Sherlock touched John's arm. "Don't."

John looked at him and then at the door. "Wh-"

Sherlock heard a creak in the doorway behind him and knew it was too late. He hastily withdrew his hand from John's arm and jerked around. Mycroft's eyes were fixed on John.

"If you and Sherlock aren't too tired perhaps we could have dinner and I could show you London," he said smoothly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"Yeah, that'd be really good," came John's voice from behind him.

Mycroft smiled. "Excellent. We'll leave at eight."

His eyes darted triumphantly towards Sherlock and he withdrew back into the library.

\--

Sherlock opened the door and stepped back for John. John glanced at him and went inside. It was a plainly decorated, rectangular room with a double-bed and a wardrobe and very little else.

"Well, this is cosy," he remarked.

Sherlock gave a dry laugh behind him. "My family aren't well-known for being cosy."

John turned to him. "I don't want to stay in here," he said bluntly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You don't?"

"Where's your room?" John said, not removing his backpack.

"Along the hall," Sherlock replied with a small smile. "But you can't stay in there."

"Why?"

John dropped his bag and walked back out to the hall. Sherlock followed him with a sigh.

"Did you not just meet my brother?" he said. "Do you think we'd be able to keep something like that from him?"

"Oh, come on," John grinned. "Your parents aren't home and you're going to make me sleep in the guest room? You frigid old man."

Sherlock sent him a stern look that was somewhat sabotaged by the smile that almost crept onto his lips. "We'd never hear the end of it."

John sighed. "Fine. At least show me your room."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He led John up to a door at the very end of the hall.

His room was similar in style and size to the guest room, but the bed was larger and four-posted. The curtains had been pulled and the musty smell suggested that they were rarely opened. There was a desk beneath the window covered in an avalanche of textbooks and an overflowing bookcase beside it with an odd assortment of objects on top of it. From what John could see there was a rusted pocket watch, a compass, a slide rule, an animal skull and a fermenting container of what appeared to be carrots. There were clothes everywhere. On the floor, the chairs, the hangings of the bed, the window. There were shoes clumped in a heap by the door and a hat stand that didn't look like it had ever been used. The walls were bare except for a collection of newspaper clippings stuck haphazardly in the space between the desk and windowsill.

John suddenly realised that if he had ever wanted to see into Sherlock's mind, this is what he would find. Chaos and curiosity.

He took a seat on the covers of the bed, staring around him. Sherlock lingered in the doorway, watching John with his nonchalant, watchful expression.

"Your brother seems nice," John remarked, glancing at him.

" _Nice_?" Sherlock spluttered, almost seeming to choke on the word. "Psychotic, perhaps. Insufferable, undoubtedly. But _nice_?"

"He was perfectly fine to me," John said stubbornly. "You're biased. You're his brother."

Sherlock shook his head with a blank expression of disbelief.

John hadn't seen anything in Mycroft that seemed particularly adverse in an older brother. He was flamboyant, yes and a little flippant but there was nothing to suggest he had been a bully to Sherlock or caused him great unhappiness. He looked very much like Sherlock, just a little taller. He was probably twenty-four or twenty-five and had been dressed in a black pinstripe suit and patent leather shoes. His hair was shorter than Sherlock's and lighter. His face wasn't as striking as Sherlock, he wasn't as delicate and pale and sharp in his features. But there was something attractive about him. Perhaps just in his confidence and mastery of himself.

John glanced at Sherlock. Not that he could _ever_ say that out loud. He'd probably find himself locked in his room for the remainder of the holidays.

"Where do you think he'll take us out?" he remarked, hoping to defuse some of Sherlock's neurotic irritation.

Sherlock approached his bookcase with a short, humourless laugh. He plucked up the skull and examined it closely. "Who knows? Though I can't say that a night out with my _brother_ was my first choice for my first night back in London."

"It might be fun," John said, flopping back onto the covers and noticing that there were more newspaper clippings pinned to the canopy.

He felt the bed depress beneath him and Sherlock's face appeared above him. "Let's make a deal," he murmured, lodging his knee between John's thighs. "You make tonight bearable and I _might_ let you sleep in my bed."

"That sounds suspiciously like a proposition," John grinned.

Soft lips found his neck and he gave a shiver as Sherlock mouthed the words "it is" into his skin. Sherlock's knee brushed against his crotch. He massaged the nape of Sherlock's neck with his fingertips, urging his lips harder into his skin.

An amused cough brought him sharply back to earth. He bolted upright, almost colliding with Sherlock's head.

Mycroft gave an apologetic grimace from the dooorway and glanced towards his brother. Sherlock stared at him, his hair sticking up from where John's fingers had disturbed it and his cheeks going more and more violently magenta with every passing moment.

"So sorry to interrupt," Mycroft said, with a small smile. "Best make it nine tonight. The restaurant insists they don't have a single free reservation before then."

He turned on his heel and left. Sherlock flattened his hair with a snarl. "Bastard!"

_ End of Chapter Fourteen _


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock tried to talk John out of dinner with Mycroft, but John was determined to go. Even being caught flat on his back didn't seem to discourage him, though he had certainly turned a very pretty shade of scarlet during the encounter, despite his later attempts to claim otherwise. If Sherlock hadn't had any reason to resent his brother beforehand, he certainly did after he had so helpfully frightened John back to the guest room.

But if John was determined to go to dinner, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to let him go alone. He could only hope that after spending an entire evening with his brother John would understand just why Sherlock had had to get away from him.

There was a quiet knock on his bedroom door.

"Yeah?"

John sheepishly peered around the door at him. "Hi."

"Well, come in then," Sherlock snapped, turning and stalking across to the wardrobe.

"Oh, come _on_ ," John said, closing the door behind him with a soft snap. "Are you going to be like this all night?"

Sherlock sighed noisily and pulled out a coat from amongst the mass of black and navy blue. "You think he's _nice_."

He heard the bed springs groan behind him. He turned to find John sitting with his back to him on the bed. He appeared to have a new shirt on, by the look of the tag still sticking out at the base of his neck.

Sherlock sighed and took a pair of scissors from his desk. "You think he's charming."

John jerked his head towards him as he knelt behind him. "The last time I check I'm allowed to think what I like about people," he said sullenly.

"I'm well aware of it," Sherlock replied drily, taking the tag between his finger and thumb and cutting it off with a swift snip. "I don't complain about your nauseating choice of friends, do I?"

John rubbed at the back of his neck. "Thanks," he grunted.

"Just be careful," Sherlock said, not able to resist pressing his lips to the soft flesh beneath John's ear. "He's good at manipulating people."

"Good" was just about the understatement of the century.

John said nothing but tilted his head slightly to one side. Sherlock made the mistake of snaking his tongue out to tease him further and recoiled with a splutter.

"What the hell do you have on your neck!" He stumbled backwards off the bed, scraping his tongue with a finger.

John turned around with a determinedly unamused look, though the edges of his mouth were twitching. "Cologne. Couldn't you smell it, you idiot?"

"I thought it was your bloody shampoo," Sherlock said crossly, unable to get the taste of metal pencil sharpeners out of his mouth. "Why the hell are you wearing cologne? Why do you _own_ cologne?"

"So what if I do?" John stood up and faced him, placing his hands on his hips in a vaguely threatening manner. The gesture was dampened by the fact that his cheeks were still pink from the shower. And his height.

"I don't know why you think you need to make an effort for _Mycroft_ ," Sherlock said, thinking with distaste of his brother's pretentious suits and leather shoes and hair oil.

John took a step towards him. "It's not for Mycroft."

He ran a hand up Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. "Don't tell me you dolled yourself up for little 'ol _me_?"

John dropped his hand with a glower. "You always have to ruin it, don't you?"

"Ruin what?" Sherlock asked, watching him to the door.

John paused in the doorway, with a decidedly coquettish glance over his shoulder. "You'll probably never know now, will you?"

Sherlock frowned after him.

At twenty minutes to nine he and John were still waiting for Mycroft in the hallway. Sherlock couldn't seem to stop himself pacing up and down, while John watched him with a frustratingly calm expression.

"We're going to be late," he remarked finally.

"Tell it to him!" Sherlock retorted, jerking his head up towards the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes and didn't reply. Sherlock forced himself to stand still.

He glowered at the ceiling overhead.

"That's it. I'm going up to find the idiot," he snapped over his shoulder, stalking towards the stairs.

He burst into the library without knocking and found him buttoning his cuffs with decided ease.

"What the hell is taking so long?" he demanded, eyeing his brother's smart suit with narrowed eyes.

"Such language," his brother replied, raising his eyebrows. "I don't know where you pick it up from. That nasty school of yours?"

"Will you just hurry up?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft gave a dismissive gesture between a wave and a shrug and turned to the mirror on his desk to put a comb through his hair, which had been oiled flat to his head. "Go and wait with your..." he cleared his throat, "friend."

"Oh, just say it," Sherlock said venomously. "Get it off your chest."

Mycroft turned to him with an infuriatingly uncomprehending expression. "That's how you referred to him in your email, isn't it? Your _friend_. Well, your _friend_ seems very _friendly_." He turned back to the mirror with a smirk. "Especially on his back."

Sherlock's fists had somehow balled up into painfully tight curls either side of him again. "You're such a-"

"John Watson," Mycroft said over his shoulder. "Sounds just like the son of a banker, doesn't he?"

Sherlock went rigid where he was. "How did-"

"And his mother is unemployed. Homemaker apparently. Though what you can _make_ out of a home in Portswood I shan't attempt to enquire into."

"Have you been running a background check on my b- _friend_ ," Sherlock asked lividly.

"I have merely been glancing into a few trifling particulars of your _b-friend_ ," Mycroft replied.

"I swear, Mycroft," Sherlock said, watching his brother polish his two front teeth with his tongue and flatten a few flyaway strands of hair to his head, "if you do anything to-"

"You really should watch that paranoia of yours," Mycroft interjected calmly. "It's not attractive."

"Just stay out of my business!" Sherlock snapped, a little shrilly.

Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling and said nothing. Sherlock followed him downstairs, far from comforted.

John straightened up from the wall when they reached the hallway, hastily smoothing down his cardigan and turning faintly pink at the sight of Mycroft. "Hey," he said clumsily.

"Nice to see that someone made an effort," Mycroft remarked, looking him up and down with amusement.

Sherlock saw nothing to mock in John's neat presentation but no doubt Mycroft was drawing his own conclusions about who he was trying to impress with the addition of cologne.

He took his umbrella from the umbrella stand and his coat from its usual peg, while John gazed at him with mixed awe and embarrassment, clearly the afternoon's mishap not far from his mind.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to himself.

\--

Mycroft's choice of restaurant was decidedly more modest than John had expected. It was not the kind of place that he would have found himself in with his own family, but he wasn't sorry for the appearance of fish and chips on the menu, amongst the caviar and stuffed olives. He already felt underdressed and uncultivated next to Mycroft Holmes as it was.

The waiter seemed to recognise Mycroft, though his expression could not be said to express any great amount of joy at seeing him. He hurriedly led them to a table in the far corner of the restaurant, almost tripping over one of the large porcelain vases that had been placed, somewhat haphazardly, as decoration in the centre of the large, rectangular room that made up the dining area.

The table was rather intimately placed beneath a small wooden canopy with curtains tied back on either side. Which, they were told by the waiter, could be loosened "at their discretion". He then left them with the menus and a sweating wine bottle of water.

"Order whatever you like," Mycroft said, plucking a menu from the centre of the table. He glanced towards John with a small smile. "It's my treat."

"We can pay for our own," Sherlock said irritably, before John could reply.

He would have pointed out that he was capable of speaking for himself, but Sherlock seemed to be perpetually tense around his brother so he refrained. Sherlock snatched up a menu, sending his brother a resentful look that was acknowledged only by an amused glance.

John ordered fish and chips and Coke, Sherlock ordered ravioli and nothing to drink, Mycroft ordered soup and red wine. He tried to order a bottle for all of them, but Sherlock wouldn't hear of it.

"We're underage," he said snappishly, as soon as the waiter was gone. "We can't drink in a public place."

"You can't buy cigarettes either," his brother replied mildly, "but you still manage to plough through a three packs a day."

"Three pack a _day_?"John said, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. "I thought you said you only smoke one at most?"

Mycroft looked at him too, a small smile playing on his lips. "He always was a good liar." Sherlock glared at him. "Or are you trying to kick the habit-"

"He barely ever smokes these days," John interjected hurriedly. "I've noticed."

Mycroft's smile widened slightly. "He doesn't? My, my. What an expected surge of self-restraint."

Sherlock sent him a very dirty look and remained silent. John got the uncomfortable feeling that he had made things worse.

The conversation before dinner was painfully stilted. John was too conscious of Sherlock watching him to speak freely to Mycroft and Mycroft seemed more than at his ease to just sit there and watch them, contentedly sipping his water.

John could have taken the tension in his hands, it was so thick. It was hard to imagine that siblings who were so alike could be at such odds. Perhaps that was the problem. They were both brilliant, both sharp, both able to read people like books. Perhaps it was little wonder that Sherlock was a little jealous of his older, more experienced, more charismatic brother.

John couldn't help feeling a rush of fondness for Sherlock. It was strangely endearing that his apparent infallibility could be penetrated by something so human as jealousy. The fact that he could feel such natural sensations at all was almost surprising.

When their food was served, Mycroft finally spoke.

"Are you _sure_ I can't convince you to have a tipple?" he said, nodding to his glass of wine as it was set in front of him.

"Ah..." John glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't interrupt this time, though he was watching him with an expression that blatantly expressed his displeasure. John looked at Mycroft. "Yeah. Why not? I'll go half-"

"No. I insist," Mycroft said smoothly. "It's the least I can do."

John avoided looking at Sherlock. He felt he had blatantly defied Sherlock's wishes and played into his insecurities concerning Mycroft, but there was a small, self-indulgent part of John that was interested in testing the boundaries of the brothers' strained relationship.

Mycroft ordered a bottle of the house wine and poured John a glass when it came. John could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him as he took a swig of white wine. He had never been keen on wine and was careful to control any unintentional contorting of his mouth that might betray his dislike.

"Don't sit there scowling, Sherlock," Mycroft remarked, taking a small sip of his own. "Have a glass."

Sherlock ignored him. John took another sip. It got easier the more he drank. The taste seemed less bitter when mixed with salty fish and chips. He finished his first glass and had another, despite a look from Sherlock that told him expressly that he did not approve.

"Sherlock mentioned you're from Southampton, John," Mycroft said suddenly, after his third glass and at least twenty minutes of total silence besides the chinking of glasses and plates.

"Yes, I am," John replied, thankful for something to fill the stifling silence with. "Portswood."

"You don't say," Mycroft said, with a vague glint in his eyes. "And what business are your parents in?"

"My father is the manager of a bank," John said, distractedly following Mycroft's gaze to his brother. "My mother stays at home."

"Oh, I see," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. "I always found monetary matters intriguing-"

Sherlock gave a contemptuous snort, which Mycroft chose to ignore. John shifted in his seat, beginning to feel like he was being sealed in the centre of a silent but intense competition between the two brothers.

There was a rigid silence. John played with a piece of fish on his plate, without having any temptation to eat it. He could almost feel the resentment and rage radiating from Sherlock.

Mycroft gave a small cough. "So, John," he said, his eyes no longer darting towards Sherlock. "How long have you been at Redverse?"

"A little over a year," John replied, feeling an uneasy pang at the mention of the school.

"Oh?" Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. "You changed high schools then? Whatever for?"

"I was accepted for a scholarship," John said uncomfortably.

"Is that so?" Mycroft said. He glanced at Sherlock. "Very impressive."

John looked away, his face hot. "A football scholarship," he said in a low voice.

He heard Sherlock shift in his seat beside him. John felt his cheeks flare at the possibility that he had embarrassed him. It seemed painfully likely that Sherlock _would_ be embarrassed that his boyfriend was just an average student who was struggling to get his schoolwork done and was coaching a team that seemed to be losing its edge.

"I never was any good at sports," Mycroft said thoughtfully, after a brief pause. "It must take a lot of endurance, a lot of patience."

John looked at him quickly. "Yeah. I suppose-"

"And stamina," Mycroft added, with a strange look at Sherlock.

John frowned at him confusedly.

Sherlock's fork landed on his plate with a clatter. "That's enough," he said coldly. "Leave him alone."

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John said irritably, looking at him. "You don't always have to speak for me."

Mycroft laughed. "Sherlock's always been a little possessive of his things."

John felt a twinge of irritation. "Well, I am not one of his _things_ ," he snapped, throwing down his napkin and getting up from the table. "I'm going to the bathroom. Try not to kill each other before I get back."

He stalked away without a backwards glance at either of them.

\--

As soon as John was out of sight, Sherlock turned furiously to his brother. "Will you back off?"

"I was only asking him a few, simple questions," Mycroft replied, leaning back in his seat and swirling the wine around in his glass in an infuriatingly complacent manner.

"Just drop this whole fucking _innocence_ act," Sherlock spat, the frustration that had been building up inside of him throughout dinner finally getting the better of him.

"You were never this aggressive before you went to that school," Mycroft said, shaking his head.

"Shut up!" Sherlock said crossly.

"And you've given up smoking?" Mycroft said, as though he hadn't spoken. "I can't say that I'm sorry, but you are aware of what's happening, aren't you-"

"I have not given up smoking," Sherlock seethed, resisting the urge to slam his fist on the table. "And even if I _had,_ it's none of your damn business!"

Mycroft placed his glass down with narrowed eyes. "Don't be such a petulant child," he said coldly, finally betraying a shred of genuine emotion. "Do you think I have nothing better to do than meddle in your life?"

"Clearly you don't." Sherlock was clutching the table so tightly that he could feel the wood becoming embedded beneath his fingernails.

"I have to admit that I didn't know brainless footballer was your type," Mycroft replied cruelly.

"You're sick," Sherlock snarled. "You just pumped him full of alcohol so you could play your little mindfuck games."

Mycroft laughed softly. His features relaxed back into their usual composure. "As fun as it is to watch your plaything dance on a string for me, I am interested in your wellbeing, not his."

"Don't you dare call him that. And don't you dare pretend to be interested in my _wellbeing_ ," Sherlock breathed, almost choking on his own bile.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, studying his face. "My God. This one has really gotten to you, hasn't he?"

Sherlock stared at him, the anger hot and thick inside of his veins. At that moment he would have done anything to feel his brother's nose break under his fist.

John returned moments later and Sherlock had nothing more to say to his brother in the meantime.

"Do you want another glass, John?" Mycroft said, almost as soon as he sat down.

John glanced at him. "No, I think I'm alright."

"We can take the bottle home no doubt," Mycroft replied crisply. He drained his own glass and placed it down, clearing his throat with satisfaction. "Are we ready to go?"

Mycroft insisted on covering the bill himself, despite John's attempts to convince him to split it three ways. The cab ride passed in silence, though Sherlock could see Mycroft occasionally sending John a shrewd, searching look. John was staring out of the window and didn't seem to notice.

Mycroft bade them both goodnight as soon as they got home and disappeared into the library, where Sherlock hoped he would stay for the remainder of the night. John had been silent since they had left the restaurant. Sherlock had a suspicion that Mycroft's behaviour had bruised his opinion of him. He couldn't say he was sorry.

"Are you alright?" he remarked, when John returned from brushing his teeth.

He was dressed in a distractingly tight t-shirt, but Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on the issue at hand. John shrugged and dropped his clothes over the back of Sherlock's desk chair.

"I have a bit of a headache," he replied, rubbing his forehead in a corroborating fashion. "I probably shouldn't have drunk that much wine."

"Probably," Sherlock said drily, leaning against the bars of the bed.

The temptation to talk about Mycroft was overwhelming, but he held his tongue. He had made a promise to himself that he wouldn't bring up the subject of his brother with John. He didn't want to complicate an already complicated situation with the even _more_ complicated relationship between him and his brother.

John gave a resigned shrug. He knelt on the end of the bed, treating Sherlock to a lovely view of his football toned stomach through the thin material of his t-shirt and the bulge between his thighs.

"Your brother doesn't like me, does he?"

Sherlock could almost have laughed at the solemn expression on John's face. "What? Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," John said. He crawled up the bed a few inches, sitting just out of Sherlock's reach. "It's just a feeling."

He hesitated, and bit his lip in a way that Sherlock found wildly alluring. He moved uncomfortably against the bed bars, pinning his legs together.

"I just..." John made a frustrated sound between his teeth. "What if he thinks I'm not good enough for you?"

Sherlock couldn't help snorting at that. "Trust me, that is the _last_ thing on his mind."

John just looked at him. He seemed so wretched and confused. He clearly trying to work out what he had done wrong when he had just been his usual likable, uncomplicated self.

Sherlock sighed. "He's just like that." He gave a humourless laugh. "He's always been like that."

John exhaled tiredly. "Maybe he's not ready to see his brother with another boy."

Sherlock knew for a fact that that was not the case and that Mycroft's attitude had little to do with John, and much more to do with him but he thought that they'd spent more than enough time agonizing over the inner workings of Mycroft's mind.

He leant forward and pressed a kiss to John's lips. "Don't worry about it. He's a bastard. It didn't take me seventeen years to work that out."

John smiled wanly and allowed himself to be enveloped in Sherlock's arms. "Sorry," he grunted.

"For what?" Sherlock said, his nostrils filled with the smell of John's cologne.

"I wanted tonight to be special," John said, flushing.

Sherlock's heart beat a little faster in his chest. "What do you mean?"

John said nothing, instead he pressed his lips against his neck. They were damp and stuck to Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's hands tightened around John's torso on their own accord.

He felt John's leg slide over his lap and then he straddled him, his crotch pressed flush against Sherlock's and nothing but soft fabric separating them. John gave his neck a gentle bite.

Sherlock's own ability to stay gentle was severely tested by the gentle gyrating movement John was making with his slim, barely clad hips. His hands wandered up John's figure, sliding up the firm curve of his stomach and running his thumbs over his still soft nipples.

John gasped against him and arched up to kiss him. Sherlock eagerly took his mouth, his arms curling around John's waist and laying flat against John's back. He loved the sounds John made. Even after all their time together, he still emitted the most delicious needy sounds. Sherlock couldn't help smiling against John's lips.

All his concerns about Mycroft evaporated. When he was with John, when he had him close to him and could feel his body pressed against his and could sense that the anxieties that plagued him had loosened and fallen away from his mind, there was nothing and no one who could have penetrated his consciousness. It was in moments like these that his feelings of gratitude to some unknown source of this undeserved good fortune reached almost foolish heights.

He cupped John's face in his hands, feverishly pushing his tongue between John's lips. John's mouth tasted like toothpaste and wine. It was a strange, heady combination. John let out a whimper that went straight to Sherlock's crotch. He pried John's lips open wider.

John broke away. His mouth and cheeks were pink. His blonde hair was a mess. It made Sherlock want to ravish him. He threaded his fingers through John's hair, his hands were clammy and John's hair stuck to his skin in tangles. John smiled in a dazed, bashful fashion and moved his fingers to the hem of his t-shirt.

Sherlock gave a groan of anticipation. He leant back on his palms on the bed. The front of his pyjamas was protruding. He watched with urgency as John tugged the t-shirt up and over his head. When he emerged, his hair was even more unkempt than before. It stirred an almost animalistic instinct inside of Sherlock to see John in such a perfect state of dishevelment. He gripped John's hips and forced him down onto the bed.

"Sherlock!" John blurted out, as he found himself pinned on his back by Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock smirked wickedly and rocked his hips purposefully against John's. His desperate moan was mingled with John's impassioned cry of his name. The thought that they might be overheard was a distant and unimportant detail that Sherlock couldn't care about at that moment. Not when he had John like this.

He knelt between John's splayed legs and gently pushed his hand against the telltale bump of John's tight boxer briefs.

John bit his lip. "Ah!"

He curled a hand around Sherlock's shirt and yanked him roughly down on top of him. Sherlock gave a shiver as every inch of his body was pinned against John's. He carefully slid a knee between John's legs and rubbed it teasingly against John's sex.

John gazed up at him dazedly, a hand still tangled in his shirt. He rolled his hips against Sherlock's knee.

"I..." John broke off, blushing. "I'm-"

Sherlock struggled up a few inches so he could see John's face. "John," he said softly, touching his cheek gently with his damp palm.

John spread his legs an inch wider. His grip tightened around Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock shivered against him. "I'm ready."

Sherlock gave a helpless groan and almost collapsed on top of him. John smirked.

"Let's do it while your brother's downstairs," John said with a titter.

Sherlock stared at him with a wretched pulse of regret. Aroused and dishevelled and free of all the constrains that Redverse forced on him, John was perfect. Sherlock shook his head and, though it almost physically hurt to do it, pushed himself up and off of John.

John stared at him in confusion. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. "Are you sure you're ready?"

John stared at him and Sherlock was dismayed to see a flicker of hurt cross his expression. "Wait a minute. You're the one who's been telling me that you'll be ready whenever I'm ready."

"I just don't think tonight is a good choice," Sherlock snapped, without meaning to. "You've been drinking and after all this crap with Mycroft-"

He broke off. John's eyes were narrowed at him. There was an uncomfortable silence. There was so much more that needed to be said, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say it.

John snatched up his t-shirt and Sherlock watched wretchedly as he pulled it back on. "Don't," he said. "Come on, John. Stay, please."

John shook his head wordlessly. He shrugged off Sherlock's hand on his leg and went towards the door without a look back. The door snapped behind him and Sherlock heard his footsteps disappear along the hallway.

He didn't move from his place on the bed. Half of him still expected John to return. When, ten minutes later, no such thing had occurred he crawled up the bed and flopped down onto his back. He stared glumly up at the ceiling.

They'd been home for one day and it already felt like an utter disaster. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to sleep with John and have that closeness and intimacy with him. He wanted to feel him move against him; he wanted to hold him and know that this was what John wanted. But he couldn't. Not tonight.

He parted his legs and stared unenthusiastically down at the erection left by their brief activities. He sighed and curled a hand around it.

_ End of Chapter Fifteen _


	16. Chapter 16

"Well, this is going to be a very merry Christmas."

Sherlock glared at his brother over his shoulder. He hadn't shifted from his armchair by the window all morning, seeming content to just make some irritating, matter-of-fact comment every now and again, always peppered with the same barely concealed glee.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, wobbling a little on his footstool.

"A little higher on the right," Mycroft remarked, glancing at him over the top of his newspaper.

Sherlock dropped the tinsel and stepped down from the footstool, landing with more force than necessary. The clock on the mantelpiece gave a violent shake.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him, lowering the newspaper an inch. "As charming as that looks, I think it's traditional to hang tinsel _over_ the mantel."

Sherlock glowered at his handiwork; the moulting red tinsel was hanging limply down by one pin. "I refuse to hang up anymore goddamned tinsel. I don't even fucking like _tinsel._ "

He kicked the footstall aside and snatched his packet of cigarettes from the mantle. Mycroft watched him as he forced one between his lips and hastily lit it.

Mycroft coughed loudly. "Awful lack of ventilation in here."

Sherlock ignored him and took a lengthy drag. He fell into the chair opposite his brother, staring out of the window past his brother's raised eyebrows and infuriatingly knowing expression. "What are you staring at, Mycroft?" he snapped, not looking at him.

There was a quiet cough behind his chair. Sherlock turned his head so quickly he cricked his neck. "John," he said, a little too eagerly.

"Hi," John said stiffly, edging into the room. He had a strange expression on his face that had hardly shifted from his face in a week.

Sherlock hadn't touched him in a week, when he tried John shrunk away like he was going to strike him. "Come to admire Sherlock's handiwork?" Mycroft said from behind him.

Sherlock turned to glare at him.

"Very nice," John replied, the stiffness still not leaving his voice.

Sherlock turned back to him and saw his eyes flicker towards the half-hung tinsel. "I do have a flare for decoration," he said drily.

John glanced at his hand. Sherlock realised too late that he still had the cigarette in his hand. It was sprinkling ash all over the floor. He hastily put it out on the coffee table, ignoring his brother's disapproving cough.

He looked back at John. There was an uncomfortable silence. He could see John wanted to say something, but he wouldn't let himself. He was too determined to punish Sherlock. He had been punishing Sherlock all week. He probably had no idea of just how successful his attempts to hurt Sherlock had been. Sherlock's attempts to coax him into speaking to him were tempered by the belief that he had done the right thing and he shouldn't have to apologise to John for trying to protect him.

The piercing cry of John's phone finally broke up the unspoken argument. It rang for a few moments before John seemed to become aware of it in his pocket and gave a small jolt.

"Sorry," he mumbled, snatching it out of his pocket.

He turned and disappeared out into the hall. Sherlock stared after him, half of him wanting to follow.

"Still not speaking?" Mycroft quipped from behind him.

Sherlock had no intention of discussing it with him, when he was convinced it was his fault. "Shut up."

"I did warn you," Mycroft said, shaking his newspaper and folding it onto his lap. "Boys like that aren't interested in-"

"Oh, please," Sherlock snapped, rounding on him. "Spare me! You wouldn't know the first thing about John's and my relationship. If you did, you wouldn't be so eager to shut him out of my life."

"You seem to have done a very good job of that yourself," Mycroft said shrewdly.

Sherlock didn't reply. He frowned at the fraying tinsel nailed to the wall. This was definitely not what he had envisioned when he'd asked John to stay for Christmas.

He could hear John's voice outside, it was echoing around the hallway, making it impossible to distinguish one word from the next. He was pacing up and down with restless fervour. Sherlock was fairly certain he knew the only person who John could be talking to who made him so anxious.

A moment later there was a beep and John went silent. Sherlock heard a low creak as he hurried upstairs.

He narrowed his eyes at his brother, as though it were his fault. He went across to he sofa opposite and fell into it, with a silent sigh.

John reappeared minutes later, with a pinker complexion than when he had walked out and his overcoat. Sherlock hastily got to his feet. "I have to-" he began.

"Who was that?" Sherlock asked, before he could stop himself.

"I- John stammered, fumbling with his coat. "Just Marty." His expression hardened. "Why do you care?"

"I don't," Sherlock said coolly. He could feel Mycroft watching him.

"Good," John replied shortly. He turned on his heel.

"Where are you off to?" Mycroft finally remarked.

John paused at the door. "I have to pop to the post office and post a card to my parents."

He avoided Sherlock's eye. Sherlock watched him go. As soon as the front door slammed, he jerked towards his brother. "Not a word," he spat and stalked out of the room.

He went up to the guest room and flung the door open. He didn't know what he expected to find. Lovelorn poems dedicated to him, evidence of an alien body invasion, more dirty magazines. He didn't know, but he felt frustratingly helpless.

He had a suspicion that John had just needed an excuse to sulk. He was strung out about his parents, anxious about school, confused about Mycroft and to top it all off he was horny as all hell, going by the amount of times Sherlock had heard him getting himself off.

Sherlock wasn't exactly coping well in that aspect either. Turning John down for sex had been one of the hardest and, he was beginning to think, stupidest things he had ever done. He had to put up with Mycroft's smugness, clearly thinking he had had something to do with John and Sherlock being at odds. He had been exuding a sort of triumphant glow all week and it made Sherlock want to hurt him in a gruesome fashion.

What Mycroft thought had happened between them he wasn't entirely certain but he knew his brother thought it was due to him in some way. Sherlock did have a sneaking suspicion that he may be overreacting and reading _way_ too much into his brother's behaviour but with John refusing to spend longer than ten minutes with him he had found himself in his brother's company more often than he would have liked and every second grated on him.

The house was now decked in a nauseating amount of decorations, thanks to Sherlock's efforts. Mycroft would no doubt take the credit for it, when in reality the extent of his exertion was to move from his armchair to get his newspaper or make a cup of tea. Sherlock didn't care, he had only put up with it because he needed something to distract him from John.

He cast a glance over John's room. It was as well-kept as his room at Redverse. His suitcase was sitting neatly by the window, containing some school books and shoes. Everything else seemed to have been put away in its correct place.

He opened the wardrobe and found a row of painfully unwrinkled jeans and t-shirts. John's dedication to the iron bordered on something kinky. He closed it and went across to the bed, crisply made with his pyjamas folded on the pillow.

"Weirdo," he muttered, prodding them.

Half of him expected John to notice his finger imprint in the material. He turned and went over to John's desk. His school diary was sitting on it and his mobile.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and picked it up. He went into registered calls. The last registered call had been at 11:08am, just ten minutes earlier.

"Hah," he said, staring down at the word 'Home'.

He put it down and went to the door. He hadn't needed proof to convince him that it hadn't been Marty Hester who had called John that morning. To Sherlock's knowledge John hadn't had any contact with his friends and had been ignoring most of the calls from his family, who called almost every day. So much so that John had resorted to turning off his phone completely sometimes. He didn't think Sherlock knew, but he did.

Sherlock shut the door of his boyfriend's room and leant against it. He felt strangely anxious. He had never doubted John's affection for him before, but John's ability to live without him had been more than proved this past week. As selfish as he knew it sounded, it bothered him. He couldn't live without John; he didn't see why John should have the privilege of feeling any different.

He spent every awkward, stifled breakfast, lunch and dinner jammed between Mycroft and John wanting to touch John so badly that he often almost completely lost it at the table. Just to wipe the smug, self-satisfied smirk off his brother's face would be reason enough.

He dreaded the possibility that John was just bored of him, that he had never felt any particularly strong regard for him and when they returned to Redverse everything would revert back to the way it was. Sherlock lusting after John from afar and John oblivious. Well, not so oblivious anymore.

And that was the worst part.

\--

On Christmas morning, John awoke with an erection.

"Fuck," he groaned, stuffing a hand under the covers.

His pyjamas felt like a small tent. Not only that, but his cock hurt from the strain of being confined inside his underwear for God knew how long.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the pressure between his legs. "You can't have wet dreams like a normal teenage boy," he grumbled. "You have to get a fucking hard-on at seven in the fucking morning."

He couldn't even remember what he had been dreaming about to induce this side effect, but he had a hunch. He only hoped he was wrong. He scrambled upright, staring around his room for a towel. There was no way he was risking getting ejaculate all over Sherlock's guest room.

He had taken all his towels to be washed the night before. He knew it, but he half hoped that he had missed one somewhere.

Of course he hadn't. That would have been too much good luck for him. He would have to get to the bathroom and do it in the shower. He cringed.

"Fucking hell," he moaned, grimacing as he stood up.

He waddled across to the chest of drawers and pulled out a clean pair of underwear, jeans and a t-shirt. He held them at what he hoped was a subtly low angle to obscure his predicament. He could hardly walk without adopting a distinctly bandy-legged appearance but he didn't have time to stall. He needed a hand around his dick right _now._

He darted out of his bedroom and hurried down towards the bathroom. He passed Sherlock's bedroom, hardly daring to breathe for fear of the door suddenly flying open. Every floorboard seemed to groan underneath him.

He reached the bathroom door with a premature swell of relief and tried the knob, only to find it was firmly locked.

"Mycroft, I'm almost done! Can you wait three bloody minutes?"

John froze. " _Shit_ ," he hissed, glancing back down to the guest room.

He was contemplating running when the door opened and he found himself face to face with Sherlock with a towel secured around his hips. Steam rolled out behind him and John caught a whiff of shampoo and shower gel.

Sherlock stopped short in the doorway, his cheeks still pink from the hot water. "John," he burst out, with less poise than usual.

Although he was admittedly wearing a towel.

"Merry Christmas," John said too quickly, lowering his clothes an inch. "You look-"

John's mind suggested "so damn good", but he decided against it.

Sherlock stared at him questioningly.

"You look..." John said, giving a tortured jiggle. "Like you've had a shower," he finished lamely.

"I have," Sherlock said, looking at him strangely. "What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," John said, clamping his clothes tighter to him. "I'm going for a shower."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him as he passed him, dripping water onto the hallway floor. "Good?"

John detected a smirk in his expression as he turned to go down to his bedroom but he didn't have time to argue. He threw himself inside the shower and locked the door.

He stared at the steamed up glass of the shower. Five minutes ago Sherlock had been in here. Naked. He threw the clean clothes into a pile.

Collapsing against the door, he stuffed one hand into his mouth and the other down his pyjamas.

"Oh f-fuck," he moaned into his knuckle. "I hate fucking C-Christmas-"

He bit down hard into his skin as his erection gave a painful throb. His hand was soaked with sweat and he could hardly get a grip on his own cock, could hardly work up any friction when it was so goddamned wet.

He slid a finger experimentally down below his shaft and gave a bodily shudder. He felt his eyes roll back on their accord.

It was almost too much. He decided that he would leave that particular area to Sherlock's more seasoned hands and returned to activities he was more familiar with. He began rubbing himself with desperate rapidity, he could feel the door rattling against his back but he was too far gone to care. Let Sherlock hear him. Who cared. He needed this. He _needed_ this.

His heels were sliding on the damp floor. There were small puddles of water left behind by Sherlock's shower and John seemed to be getting most of it on his pyjamas. He could feel himself getting sticky all over, it was hot as a sauna in the bathroom and it was making him sweat like a pig.

He bit down hard on his knuckle to keep from crying out as he came into his hand. He knew whose name his mouth kept almost articulating. He had just enough dignity left to stop himself. The door gave a hard rattle as he pressed himself against it, his hand still wrapped around himself.

His pyjamas were ruined. He could feel it all over his underwear and the crotch of his pyjamas. He pulled his hand out of his pants, wrinkling his nose. He felt filthy. He was filthy, he was drenched in sweat and the water from the bathroom floor. And his own ejaculate.

He peeled off his pyjamas, and showered himself thoroughly. He didn't have any of his own toiletries but there was no way he was risking a journey back to the guest room in his current state.

When he felt he had scrubbed off every inch of the morning's activities from his skin, he dressed in his clean clothes and rolled his dirty pyjamas into a ball, obscuring the mess he'd made. If he ran into Sherlock again, which given his luck was likely, he would at least have a shot at pretending nothing had happened. Unless he _had_ overheard him, which John had to admit was also rather likely.

However, he did not meet Sherlock on the way back. When he passed his room he noticed Sherlock's door was open an inch. He risked a glance inside and glanced a slither of dark hair near the bed. He walked down to his own door and hesitated with his hand over the doorknob. He looked back over his shoulder. More than half of him was contemplating walking back and knocking on Sherlock's door.

He gave himself a shake and went into his own room. He tossed the ruined pyjamas into his suitcase, deciding he'd deal with them later. Though he had no idea when.

He sat on the edge of his bed. All of the erratic, aroused energy had dribbled away and now he just felt flat and humiliated. As he always did after an experience like that. He hadn't spent the week in perfect, undisturbed indifference as Sherlock clearly had; he had been suffering through it day by day. All he wanted to do was be with his boyfriend but something -he suspected pride- held him back.

He had waited in vain for Sherlock to come and apologise to him all week. He _deserved_ an apology. He was determined to get one, but as every day passed it seemed less and less likely that he ever would. The more he watched Mycroft and Sherlock together, the more he was convinced that this was a family that he could never hope to belong to.

It was Christmas. He should have been happy. He should have been spending the day with his boyfriend. Christmas had never been a time he particularly enjoyed. He didn't enjoy the days leading up to it, the stress and pandemonium of buying presents and sending cards and giving the house what seemed like a violent make-over for their relatives, and he didn't enjoy the day itself, which seemed to swing wildly between moments of intense chaos and moments of intense boredom. The Holmes' Christmas probably wouldn't be much different, but it would have been bearable because he'd have Sherlock and that was all he needed.

He stood with a sigh and left to go downstairs. Sherlock was still in his room. He could hear him shuffling around inside. Sherlock probably hated Christmas too, despite evidence to the contrary. He had had a very active role in hanging tinsel and putting up the tree, though John had a suspicion it had less to do with real interest and more to do with having nothing else to do. Sherlock had an aversion to doing nothing. In that respect, he was nothing like his brother.

John reached the second floor and stared down to where Mycroft's library was. It felt like an age ago that he had walked down there with Sherlock, having no idea who Mycroft was or what he'd be like. A week had admittedly done little to illuminate that.

He glanced quickly back up the stairs and then walked along to the door. He hesitated in front of it, feeling a childish pang of nervousness in his chest, like he had been sent to Principal Harvey's office. He raised his hand to knock and had barely brushed his knuckles against the wood when there was a brisk:

"Enter."

He hesitated for half a moment and then cautiously slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He didn't like the idea of shutting himself into a room with Mycroft but he couldn't risk Sherlock overhearing.

Mycroft was leaning back in his usual chair; both feet back up on the table and his usual newspaper resting on his lap. He was wearing pinstriped trousers, a very stiff white shirt and a scarlet waistcoat with rather large buttons. John was struck by the image of a pale, overgrown elf but shoed it away before he smirked.

"John," he said pleasantly, his expression perfectly blank as always. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," John said awkwardly, standing very close to the door.

Mycroft slowly lowered his legs from the table. "What can I do for you?"

There was a slight purr to his voice that John didn't entirely trust. "I wanted to ask you something," he said, shifting uncomfortably where he was. "About Sherlock."

Well, he had said it. He couldn't get out of it now.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, catlike eyes darting quickly over his face. "Well," he said finally. "I can try and be of some help, but trust me he is as much an enigma to me as he is to you."

John took a step forward. "I think you do know," he said, finding courage from some unknown source. "It's about his life before... before me."

"Then you will be here for a rather long time," Mycroft said, with a distasteful sweetness to his voice. "Is there a particular aspect of his life "before you" that you are speaking of?"

John didn't reply. The stairs outside gave a groan and John knew Sherlock was coming downstairs. He could only hope he didn't decide to visit his brother in the library or wonder where John had disappeared to.

"Look," John said quickly, turning back to Mycroft. "I know you don't like me. I don't know why. Maybe you're just overprotective, maybe you really are just a bastard like Sherlock says you are but I'm not here to do anything to your brother."

There was a hardness to his voice that he had never heard before. He almost immediately regretted his outburst. Mycroft was watching him closely. John half expected him to kick him out.

Then, to his considerable surprise, he smiled. "Good to see you have some spirit in you. I was beginning to wonder what my brother saw in you." He looked away with a widening smile. "Beyond the obvious of course."

John flushed. "You...I... Stop playing games-"

Mycroft gave a silky laugh. "I assure you that I am very serious." The smile abruptly left his face. "I will answer your questions, but first you can answer a question of mine."

He stood up. Before John realised what he was doing he had walked across to the door and turned the key in the lock. He put it in the pocket of his trousers. John stared at him. "What are you doing?"

"We don't want to be disturbed," Mycroft said, sitting back behind his desk. "Sherlock's very nosy. Especially when it comes to me- and you it appears."

"What question?" John snapped. He couldn't help a note of panic creeping into his voice, which he knew Mycroft would undoubtedly distinguish.

Even if he did, Mycroft made no sign of it. He folded his newspaper and placed it to one side and then rested both his hands on the table, threading his long, pale fingers through each other and looking very much like a lawyer or a doctor. Save for the red waistcoat. "I'll be blunt, Mr. Watson. What do you want with Sherlock?"

John stared. "What do you mean?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean," Mycroft said quietly, watching him beadily. "Why would a boy of your background be interested in my brother?"

"Why not?" John said coldly.

"Let's not play games," Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair with a low squeak. "Despite appearances to the contrary, Sherlock is my main priority. He may be a demanding brat at the best of times but I have his best interests at heart."

"You clearly don't or you wouldn't be so eager to take him from me," John said sullenly.

He edged back towards the door. He was beginning to regret coming here. He didn't know what he had expected or if he had truly believed that Mycroft would help him.

"You aren't answering my question," Mycroft said, with more patience than he evidently felt. "What do you want with my brother?"

John was silent. He didn't know what to say or how to word it or whether he had any need to in front of Mycroft. He didn't see how he should have to prove himself to a brother who Sherlock didn't even like, but at the same time he was unintentionally moved by Mycroft's protectiveness of his brother. It was the first time he had displayed any brotherly affection for Sherlock. Given, it wasn't exactly "affectionate" but it was good to know he wasn't completely indifferent.

"I..." John faltered. He didn't want to say this to Mycroft. "I... I really..."

He didn't know how to word it without making a fool of himself. Mycroft's eyes were boring into him, cold and unreadable.

"I care for him and he cares for me," he garbled at last, fixing his eyes on the window behind Mycroft's head. "I have no intention of hurting him."

Silence fell on them. John could feel his cheeks burning. He couldn't meet Mycroft's eye.

At length, Mycroft cleared his throat. John heard his chair scrape across the floor. "I'm glad to hear it," he said drily, though his voice had lost some of its sharpness.

John forced himself to look at him. "I've answered your question. Now answer mine. What happened to him?"

Mycroft didn't reply immediately. He unlinked his fingers and then linked them again. John got the feeling he was weighing up whether he was really going to tell him what he knew. "No doubt you have noticed that Sherlock is far from normal," he said finally. "He's always been in need of constant employment. He's always needed his mind to be occupied-" He broke off. "I hardly expect you to understand."

"I will," John snapped, his hands balled up so hard they hurt.

Mycroft shrugged. "Two years ago or so, it's hard to say exactly when, he became particularly destructive. He's always been destructive. He likes chaos. No doubt you've gathered _that_ from the state of his bedroom."

John said nothing. He jerked his head very slightly.

"When he was fourteen or fifteen he became particularly depressed and self-destructive," Mycroft said, his voice very different to its usual calm, contented drawl. "So he went looking for a rush." He paused, looking at John very seriously. "He tried alcohol and when that didn't work, he moved onto... other avenues. Other more dangerous avenues. My parents didn't have the ability to stop him, I was away at school and it wasn't until he fell into the hands of a particularly nasty..." He swallowed and John realised he was barely holding back a tremor from his voice. "Well, he was badly hurt. It was probably the only thing that kept him from killing himself. He was sent away to Redverse and that was that."

John took a desperate gasp of air. He had barely been aware of not breathing while Mycroft had been speaking, but his throat was suddenly as dry as paper. "God," he croaked.

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I didn't expect it to be remedied so easily, but he seems to have sorted himself out." He fixed him with a hawkish expression. "He smokes so he can bear those feelings, that need for mental stimulation. Do you understand me?"

There was a brief silence. Mycroft's eyes never shifted from him for a moment.

"You don't think he really wants me," John said, his nostrils stinging. "You just think I'm another outlet for those feelings."

Mycroft didn't reply, but it was obvious what he thought. He was watching John with an almost pitying expression. John wanted to tear it off his face.

"You're wrong," John said, shaking his head. "He needs me. He feels for me."

Mycroft laughed shortly. "He's a Holmes. He doesn't feel anything."

\--

Sherlock glanced down to where John was seated. It seemed as though Mycroft had purposely placed them as far from each other as possible. Mycroft was at the head of the table opposite and John was on his right, with one of Sherlock's aunts beside him. Sherlock was between one of his triplet cousins (he still hadn't learnt to tell them apart) and his grandmother, who hadn't stopped complaining since she had sat down at the table.

To John's credit, he had been making a visible effort with the Holmes relations, answering their questions and forcing a laugh at all of Sherlock's uncle's terrible, racist jokes. It was obvious that he wanted to be anywhere but there. His eyes were very red, but no matter how much Sherlock looked at him he couldn't decide whether it was because he was tired, or because he had been crying. The latter reason was too painful to comprehend.

He had known Christmas dinner was going to be hellish but knowing that John was suffering along with him made it ten times more awful.

"That boy's hair is terribly untidy," his grandmother remarked, jerking her greying head at John and not bothering to lower her voice. Though the room was so noisy anyway that there was probably no real need to. "Why is it that boys your age never seem to know how to use a comb properly?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes while she was busy sawing at her roast beef. "I don't think it's particularly untidy," he said coolly. "Compared to the rest of our year at school it's quite conservative."

She gave a chuckle through a mouthful of food. "Well, you know best, dear. I do wish you'd let me cut _your_ hair, Sherlock." She gave his untidy tangles a wistful look. "You're such a handsome boy. You ruin yourself with that hair!"

Sherlock had had this conversation with his grandmother too many times before to take the bait. He was not in the mood for having another argument over the length of his hair with her. They became far too boisterous and his grandmother was a stubborn woman.

"So where are the parents of this friend of yours?" remarked his triplet cousin, glancing down to where John was pretending to be deeply engrossed in whatever his Aunt Shona was talking about.

"They're in Southampton," Sherlock replied calmly, picking up a carrot without having much intention of eating it.

"I see!" said his triplet cousin, furrowing his thick red eyebrows. "Saddled him on you, did they?"

"They didn't saddle him on anyone," Sherlock said, just able to keep a smirk from creeping onto his face at the explosions of images that his own words created. "I offered. He's a very good friend of mine."

"The last time I checked," his triplet cousin said, looking at him sideways, "you didn't _have_ any friends."

The last time I checked you and Mary were getting a divorce because she slept with your boss," Sherlock replied flatly.

He had taken a gamble, as he hadn't been entirely certain if this _was_ the triplet who was getting a divorce, but he could tell from the violent magenta tinge that crept across his cousin's features that he had guessed correctly.

"My goodness, Sherlock," his grandmother said reprovingly. "No need to be snappish. Why must you always be so irate? The least you can do is pretend to be pleased to see your own family! It only happens once a year!"

Once a year was far too often in Sherlock's opinion.

The other two triplets were watching John with a mixture of amusement and scorn. Sherlock bristled in his seat, wishing he could walk over and knock their heads together. He could see them muttering together, clearly making their own conclusions about who John was and why he was there. It didn't matter one bit to Sherlock what they thought but if they made John uncomfortable he'd personally remove every single one of them from the house. Fortunately John seemed too preoccupied with pretending not to be miserable to notice.

At the other end of the table, Mycroft barely ever opened his mouth except to put food in. He glanced now and again at one of the guests or, much more frequently, at John. Sherlock didn't know whether he was just doing it to piss him off because he wasn't being particularly subtle about it.

"Mary and I are not getting a divorce besides," said the triplet cousin at length, whose name Sherlock now remembered was something like Rodney. Or Roy. "We've decided that it would be best for the sake of the children if we at least tried to... to sort it..." He trailed off into humiliated silence.

Sherlock didn't even bother replying. His grandmother was glaring at him out of her winged glasses in an unsubtle attempt to make him apologise. Across the table he could see his uncle was drinking too much wine and sloshing more and more of it down his front and on the tablecloth the more he drank. John was staring at his plate, toying with a piece of salad without bringing it to his mouth.

His role as perfect guest seemed to have finally exhausted him. Across from him Aunt Shona, dressed in one of her many ugly homemade jumpers, was still droning away, oblivious to the fact that John had longed since stopped listening.

Sherlock sighed and took another mouthful of wine. He didn't know how else he was going to get through this. He already felt like throttling everyone at the table.

"You'll never get a girl with that sort of bad attitude!" his grandmother chided, unabated. "Deary me. When I think of how polite your brother is!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, on the verge of telling her to go and sit with Mycroft if she liked his manners so much. "I'm sorry," he said, having to use every scrap of self-restraint he had to get the words out. "How are Marbles and Petunia?"

He knew that the one thing his grandmother could talk about for hours without pause, besides the length of his hair, were her two overfed, foul-tempered Burmese cats. It was the sort of one-sided conversation that only required an occasional "oh, really" or "I see" every so often to keep her happy.

When she was firmly in the midst of it, he excused himself to go to the bathroom just so he could have a few minutes alone to brood over the insufferable hatefulness of everything and everyone.

He met his uncle in the hallway. He smelt strongly of rolling tobacco and wine. "Good evening, Sherlee-Sherla-Sherlosh," he said, with a high-pitched hiccup. "Didn't get a chance to shpeak with you 'afore-'athore- before dinner!"

He gave Sherlock's shoulder an irritating slap and wobbled past him on his way back to the dining room.

"Like your - _hic_ \- friend by the by! Knowsh- knowsh- knows hish football!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his back on him.

When he got back to the dining room after a needlessly slow journey up and down the stairs and a detour to his bedroom he found everyone on their way to the drawing room across the hall for tea. He waited patiently for the procession to pass, instinctually knowing John would be at the back.

His grandmother tutted at him when she passed him, clearly not pleased that he had slipped away during one of her anecdotes about Marbles and the clothes dryer. Rodney -Rory?- gave him a distinctly dirty look as he went past, the only thing that distinguished him from his two red-headed, awkwardly limbed siblings.

Mycroft and John brought up the rear. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. "And where did you disappear to?"

"Bathroom," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and disappeared into the drawing room. John went to follow him, keeping his eyes determinedly forward. Sherlock grabbed the wrist of his woollen pullover. John looked back at him with a strangely taut expression.

"What?" he said quietly, not tearing his arm out of Sherlock's grip but not turning around completely to face him either.

Sherlock gently pulled him around to face him, emboldened by the fact John hadn't rebuffed him. He threaded his fingers through John's and wordlessly pressed his lips to his. "I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas properly," he said, stepping back and feeling for something under his jumper.

"What's that?" John asked, eyeing the flat package.

"Your present," Sherlock said, pushing it into his hands.

"Oh," John said, looking over it guiltily. "I didn't get you anything."

"That's alright," Sherlock smiled. "It's just a little something." He paused, glancing around. He leant forward slightly. "I wouldn't unwrap it quite yet though."

With that, he went into the drawing room. It looked markedly different with tinsel hanging off the borders of all the portraits, and the tree hulking over them from the corner with its various green and red baubles. Sherlock thinned his lips at his handiwork. It would be just like Mycroft to bring it up.

He took an empty seat between his Aunt Shona and his uncle, who was nodding off in his seat with a glass of eggnog still in his hands. Mycroft looked at him from the sofa opposite, with a distinctly sharp expression.

"Where did John get to?" he asked in a would-be quiet voice.

"He just had to put something in his room," Sherlock replied calmly, ignoring his relatives' stares.

"He's a nice boy!" Shona said fondly. "You couldn't have picked a better friend!"

The fact that she had only known John for a little over an hour rendered her compliment less than gratifying.

His grandmother gave a disapproving snort. "He needs to comb his hair! I don't know what these boys think they're trying to prove but looking like street urchins won't get them very far in life, you mark my words."

The triplets, who had all had thinning hair since they were about twelve, nodded sagely. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said nothing.

John appeared moments later and Sherlock inwardly winced as all eyes swivelled towards him as he took the only empty seat beside Mycroft on the sofa.

"But how do they know each other?" his grandmother said loudly, to almost no one in particular it seemed. "That's what I'd like to know!"

"Where did you meet him?" asked one of his cousins. "Not at Redverse, surely?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the comment. "Yes, at Redverse," he said coldly.

"Hasn't he told you? My my, Sherlock. This'll never do." Mycroft said quietly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. "John is Sherlock's new beau. They're positively inseperable."

John froze visibly in his seat. The eyes, which had been darting between them until now, fixed themselves on John with almost vicious curiosity.

"What on earth do you mean, Mycroft?" his grandmother said, breaking the silence.

"He's not serious, is he?" one of the triplets said, a triumphant grin threatening to engulf his lower face. "Surely he's not serious?"

"Well, you know what Sherlock's like," Mycroft said lightly. "I suppose he couldn't help himself."

"Fuck you," Sherlock growled, truly not able to stop himself.

There was an icy silence, broken only by his grandmother's horrified " _Sherlock_!". The triplet cousins looked positively gleeful. His uncle gave a loud snore from his chair.

"My God!" his grandmother exclaimed at length. "Such language! I never knew you to be so aggressive!"

She stared at John with a suspicious expression, as though she supposed he had a part in it. John had gone brilliantly red and didn't seem able to move in his chair. Mycroft laid a hand on John's leg. Sherlock's stomach twisted with hatred.

"It's perfectly alright, Meredith," Mycroft said coldly. "I'm just sorry that he had to act like this in front of his own guest."

John pushed Mycroft's hand off of him and got to his feet. "Yeah, I'm Sherlock's idiot footballer boyfriend," he snapped, glaring around the ogling crowd. "Get a good look while you still can."

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving a ringing silence in his wake. Sherlock stared at his brother. He thought he could detect the slightest hint of heightened colour to his brother's cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft said quietly, not looking at any of them. "That was entirely unex- Sherlock, where are you-"

Sherlock didn't reply. He stepped pointedly over his brother's crossed ankles and walked across to the door.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said sharply, as his hand was on the knob. "These are your relatives!"

Sherlock looked back at him. "Exactly."

He walked out and shut the door behind him.

\--

John wrenched open his suitcase and stuffed a handful of clothes inside without folding them. He pulled open the top drawer of his suitcase and yanked out another handful of clothes, tossing them over his shoulder to the rest of the pile.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He turned to find Sherlock staring at him from the door. He looked almost ready to run at him he was so angry. "I'm going home," John spat, turning back to his suitcase and beginning to fling shoes inside. "I don't belong here. I don't know why I ever thought it would be a good idea to come here. I'm no good for you."

"Where the fuck is this coming from?" Sherlock demanded, standing between John and the suitcase and grabbing his wrists.

John wrenched himself out of his grip. "Your brother knows I'm no good for you. He knows I'm no good! Why wouldn't you tell me something like that? Don't you think I'd care? Don't you think it'd matter to me?"

He was so filled with rage, so filled with humiliation and hurt. He could hardly look at Sherlock without a cascade of agony bursting in his chest.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock said in a low voice. "What the hell did Mycroft tell you?" His eyes flashed in an almost menacing fashion.

"He told me the truth," John burst out furiously. "Something you seem to be incapable of doing!"

Sherlock stared at him, realisation flashing through his eyes. John felt the heat rush into his face.

"I don't want to be your fix for when you can't get nicotine," John said quietly, almost regretting speaking so rashly.

For a moment Sherlock didn't move and then he abruptly twisted around and marched towards the door. John jerked after him, almost too surprised to react.

"Where are you going!" he blurted out, grabbing Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock didn't look at him, he gave his arm a violent tug in John's stronger grip.

"I'm going to find Mycroft," he snarled.

John yanked him back. "Mycroft told me the truth!" he said, unable to keep the note of panic from his voice. "Don't blame him for what you chose not to tell me."

Sherlock rounded on him so quickly that he dropped his arm out of surprise. "Mycroft didn't tell you the _truth_!" he roared. John stumbled back a foot. He had never seen Sherlock so angry, he almost expected to feel a fist come into contact with his nose. "Mycroft has _never_ known what I want! Whatever the hell he told you, whatever lies he's been pissing into your ear it's all his own smug interpretation!"

"Why did you never tell me?" John said softly, his throat feeling very sore. "I wouldn't have judged you. You know I wouldn't."

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "The same reason you never speak about your family." He exhaled heavily. "It hurts."

John felt a pang of annoyance. It was just like Sherlock to bring this around and make it about _his_ family. He stomped his foot impatiently on the floorboards. "Don't give me that!" he spat. "You know I'd love you no matter what you did." He rolled his eyes. "Or who you did."

Sherlock watched him wordlessly. John stared back at him. It took him three long, silent seconds to realise what he had just said.

"Oh fuck," he said, throwing his hands over his mouth. "Oh fuck. I didn't... I mean... When I say love I mean-"

He was cut off by Sherlock forcing a knee between his legs and roughly shoving him backwards. He staggered back a few steps, almost losing his balance before he came abruptly into contact with the wall.

He found both his hands pinned above his head. He stared into Sherlock's face, still reeling with surprise. He felt Sherlock's body press against his and couldn't hold back a whimper. He bit his lip in a weak attempt to stifle it.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to hear those words," Sherlock said weakly.

He bruised John's lips with an almost violent kiss. John wrenched his wrists from Sherlock's grip and blindly clawed at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. He felt Sherlock's hands on the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it upward.

Sherlock broke away, tearing John's shirt clean over his head and immediately moving to the buttons on John's jeans. John hastily tore at the remainder of Sherlock's buttons, almost yanking more than one completely off its seams.

"I've... wanted this... for so..." he panted, his voice trembling almost uncontrollably.

"Shhh," Sherlock said hoarsely, pushing his lips back against his.

John felt his jeans slide an inch down his thighs. Sherlock firmly prodded his tongue inside his mouth, caressing the inside of his lip. John curled his arms around Sherlock's back, forgetting about his shirt and the fact that his jeans were slipping further and further down his legs.

Sherlock cupped his crotch through the material of his underwear, rubbing the rapidly forming hardness with his palm. After a week of wanking off in bathrooms, the feel of Sherlock's hand touching him was almost too much. He felt his knees buckle underneath him.

"Sherlock..." he panted, breaking away for air.

Sherlock's face was extremely red and damp. He gave a hasty nod and they stumbled over to the bed. He gave John a gentle push and he tumbled down onto his back on the bed, his jeans now around his knees and his cock straining almost painfully through his underwear.

Sherlock shed his shirt and let it drop onto the carpet. His hands were on the buttons of his jeans when there was a loud knock at the door. Before either of them could respond, Mycroft's furious voice sounded.

"Sherlock! If you're in there, you can come downstairs this instant. The guests- _your_ guests- are still downstairs!"

Before John could protest, Sherlock picked up one of his school shoes and hurled it at the door with impressive aim. "Fuck off, Mycroft!"

John had to stifle a laugh as Mycroft scoffed at them through the door. Sherlock turned back to him with a roguish smile and knelt over John on the bed. He slid his thumbs inside of John's jeans and yanked them down around his ankles.

John gave a soft moan as Sherlock pressed a hand against his throbbing erection again. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock bent down and pressed a feverish kiss to his lips and then put his mouth close to his ear. John shivered as Sherlock's breath cascaded down his neck, goosebumps erupting over his skin. "I've wanted this from the first time I saw you."

John tossed his head with a groan, almost colliding with Sherlock in the process. "Uh G- Oh God. Fuck me."

He hadn't ever thought those words would leave his mouth, nor had he counted on them on being so arousing. A heated wave swept through his crotch, his cock gave a needy throb.

"Sherlock, please fuck me," he whimpered, realising that Sherlock hadn't moved.

Sherlock was staring at him, an expression of the upmost anguish suddenly on his face. He looked so aroused that John thought him in danger of passing out.

"What's wrong?" he said, barely able to breathe properly.

"Er," Sherlock glanced at the door. "Do you have a condom?" He hesitated. "Or... ah... lube?"

John stared at him. "What are you talking about?" he said, not able to keep a note of hysteria coming into his voice. "I thought you would have that covered!"

"I don't keep them in the house!" Sherlock snapped. "For obvious reasons!"

John jerked upright. "You fucking idiot!"

Sherlock got abruptly to his feet. "We'll go and get some."

"From where exactly?" John spat. "It's Christmas!"

Sherlock hesitated. John stared at him, feeling close to strangling him for getting him into this predicament without foreseeing this. "There's a general store just around the corner." He was doing the buttons up on his jeans at the speed of light. "And if all else fails, we'll go to Sainsbury's. Something will be open."

John yanked his jeans up and staggered off the bed after him, yanking up his shirt from the floor.

Sherlock stopped at the door and stared at him. "You're not seriously coming."

"You honestly think I'm going to stay here like this?" John said crossly, gesturing to his lower half. "I'm calling a cab." He grabbed his phone from the vanity.

"It'll cost you a fortune!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I don't care if it costs my life savings," John snapped, mashing the number in with his thumb. "We're getting those damn condoms."

_ End of Chapter Sixteen_


	17. Chapter 17

They hurtled down the hallway and burst out the front door into the cold. Sherlock could hear his brother's voice in the drawing room but he didn't stop to find out if he had heard them. He slammed the door behind them and they hurried down to the curb, where the cab was already waiting for them. A single sharp blast of the horn had relieved them from the torturous wait in Sherlock's bedroom.

Torn between vicious impatience and the most burningly painful lust he had ever felt, Sherlock had spent it pacing uncontrollably up and down the length of his room and trying to control his increasingly erratic breathing.

Every so often it became too much and he found himself dragging John into a kiss that was little more than the gnashing of his mouth against various parts of John's face. He knew they should have been avoiding contact at all costs to keep from making matters worse, but John looked so unspeakably fuckable when he was still sporting a visible erection through his jeans and his cheeks were tinged a furious shade of scarlet.

John was so angry with him it was almost comical. He couldn't look at him without giving a disbelieving shake of his head and his lips becoming a furious, thin line. He had kept swearing under his breath and more than once seemed close to kicking something. Sherlock almost could have laughed if he hadn't been so concerned John might try and strangle him. And so horny he couldn't seem to generate any other emotion.

He bundled John into the back of the cab and clambered in after him. "Take us to the nearest supermarket!" John yelped at the driver as he was thrown against the far door by a slightly too enthusiastic shove from Sherlock.

The cabbie stared at them through the rear-view mirror.

" _Go!_ " they shouted in unison.

"What do you want me to do?" the cabbie said incredulously, exhilarating so suddenly they were both thrown back in their seats. "Drive around until I find a shop open?"

"That's what we're paying you for," Sherlock snapped.

The cabbie was an overweight man of about fifty with little hair and a seriously bad case of BO. Given that it was absolutely freezing inside the cab as well as out, Sherlock couldn't fathom how anyone could produce enough sweat to smell _that_ bad.

It was just about as unsexy as anything could possibly be and Sherlock practically felt his cock wilt inside his trousers. Then he made the mistake of looking at John and he was right back to where he had started.

John had one hand wrapped around Sherlock's forearm so tightly that he was in danger of cutting off the circulation to his hand. Sherlock couldn't get his seatbelt around himself when John was hanging off him the way he was so he secured himself by linking his arms around John's waist.

It wasn't a wise decision. John's body was warm and soft in its few layers. He clearly hadn't thought to grab a coat on their way out and was only dressed in jeans and a jumper. Sherlock could feel every angle and curve of John's body through the wool in painful detail. The smell of John's deodorant and his shampoo and his _flesh_ was so strong in Sherlock's nostrils he felt dizzy. The only way he could describe it or even begin to understand it was likening it in his mind to when an animal was in heat and inhaled the scent of its... soon-to-be mate.

He was aware of the strange looks the cabbie was giving them through the rear-view mirror, but it was difficult to care. John seemed to have got it into his head that if he loosened his grip on Sherlock even half an inch, he'd dissipate. One of his hands was lingering dangerously close to the barely controlled ache between Sherlock's tightly clasped legs.

"John," Sherlock hissed, as the cab hurtled around a corner and he was almost thrown right into John's lap. "If you don't get your hand out of my crotch, you're going to be losing your virginity in the back of a taxi."

John looked sharply at him, as though he wasn't entirely certain whether he was joking (to be honest, Sherlock wasn't entirely certain if he was joking) and moved his hand a few inches upward. Sherlock could still feel his index finger sitting in the incline between his thigh and hip.

"You wouldn't happen to know what's open on Christmas, would you?" he said in a strangled voice to the cabbie. It felt like John's hands were everywhere, his warmth and body was all over him. He could hardly think when the same three words kept repeating over and over in his mind. _Fuck. Him. Now_. "Convenience stores? Petrol stations?"

"If you're lucky, Tesco might be," the cabbie said gruffly at length, seeming to have caught on to their predicament.

"Then go there," Sherlock said sharply, feeling John's hand stray downwards again. He leant towards him. "I'm warning you," he said into John's ear. John shuddered against him.

The cab slowed down when they passed Tesco but it was obvious even at first glance that it was not open. The trolleys were chained in two mournful rows and there wasn't a car or person to be seen anywhere.

"Try Sainsbury's," Sherlock said, not letting the disappointment distract him for longer than half a second.

He saw the cabbie raise his eyebrows in a dubious fashion but he didn't comment. He knew better than to comment, since he was making a mint off them.

"Wait," Sherlock said suddenly, turning his head in a vain attempt to get John's hair out of his nostrils. "There's a general shop on Cromwell Road. Try that."

He really had no idea if it'd be open but it seemed to be open every hour of every other day of the year, rain or shine so he thought it'd be a pretty good bet that it'd be open today.

Sherlock fixed his eyes out of the window, trying to concentrate on controlling the sensation between his thighs. He could still see the outline of John's head so clearly out of the corner of his eye that it barely mattered where he looked but he could at least _try_ and avoid ejaculating all over a cab seat.

Outside there was a only quiet drizzle of traffic. Since there was no public transport running, there were no buses to get in their way and no irate evening commuters. There were a few giddy pedestrians sliding around on the footpath and coming dangerously close several times to sliding right out onto the road.

Sherlock had never been so glad to be deprived of a white Christmas. He couldn't even imagine how the hell they would have gotten through London if all the roads had been frozen over.

"There it is," John said, sounding breathless.

Sherlock felt close to it himself. There it was. And it was open. It was _open_. To Sherlock, the glow of the artificial lighting through the gloom was better than a guiding star. The illuminated advertisements for cheap food and smokes was just about the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen.

"Wait here," he said to the driver, already halfway out of the door and trying to shake John off of him like an overly affectionate kitten.

To his surprise, John stumbled out after him. "I'll come with you."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. He didn't think John was going to handle his first condom-buying experience particularly well but he had no time to argue with him. He ducked his head down into the cab door. "If you're gone when we get back so help me I will call your company and tell them you robbed us."

The cabbie waved his hand over his shoulder in a "whatever" motion and Sherlock slammed the door shut.

He took John's cold hand in his and they hurried their way across the empty parking lot. The automatic doors rattled open as they neared them. A girl with blonde bangs glanced up at them from the counter, seeming mildly surprised to see a customer (let alone two) and then went back to staring at her nails.

Sherlock dropped John's hand and headed straight for the nearest aisle. He could see shampoo, toothpaste, bandaids, tissues, nail polish remover, toenail clippers. If they were anywhere, they'd be there.

With John hovering anxiously behind him, he cast his eyes up and down every shelf. There seemed to be everything anyone could possibly want at short notice from eye drops to laxatives. But no fucking condoms.

"Damn it," he hissed.

"What is it?" John said from behind him, sounding alarmed.

Sherlock turned to him, shaking his head briefly. "They're not here."

John blinked, looking ready to cry. "But- this is a-"

Sherlock walked past him and up to the counter. The girl straightened up with a brief, forced smile. "Hi, can I help you?"

Sherlock ignored the standard greeting and leant forward an inch, in a vain attempt to veil John from view.

He cleared his throat. "Condoms?"

The girl paused, glancing at John and then back to him. "Yeah." She jerked her head over her shoulder.

Sherlock straightened up. On an almost overly discreet shelf to her left was a small collection of various condoms. Some in small square boxes, some in longer rectangular boxes and each in a different colour. There were only two brands.

Sherlock scanned the two rows quickly. He could almost feel the heat rising in John's face behind him. The girl was staring at him with a would-be bland expression that Sherlock knew would be sending John squirming with humiliation.

He hastened to end John's suffering. "The regular _Turncoats_ please," he said quietly. "Blue," he clarified when she looked blank.

"Just a small packet?" she said, one hand on the blue box and the other on the counter.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, his eyes travelling along to a small display of pregnancy tests and lubricant shoved unceremoniously to one side on the countertop. "And a bottle of... ah, lube."

He heard John shuffle behind him and give a severely discomfited cough. The girl almost smirked and then grabbed the bottle, which was covered in a thin film of dust and looked like it had been standing there since last Christmas.

Sherlock hastily handed over the money and placed the condoms and lubricant into the inside pocket of his coat. "Thank you."

"Have a very Merry Christmas," the girl said pleasantly.

Sherlock refrained from replying "we certainly will" for John's sake and ushered him out of the doors.

John had an expression on his face that Sherlock could only describe as shellshock. He only seemed to regain the ability to speak when they neared the cab. "Why the hell would they put them behind the counter! Of all the stupid things..."

"How do I know?" Sherlock said, battling with the urge to smirk at John's outrage. "To discourage adolescent promiscuity?" He opened the door for him.

The cabbie didn't turn around when they got in. He was probably afraid of what he'd see. Sherlock slammed the door shut and he jerked his head slightly to the side, but that was all the acknowledgment they received.

"Back to Eldon Road, if you please," Sherlock said smoothly, feeling remarkably more in control now that he had what they needed.

He glanced sideways across to John. He was shivering in his seat, his jumper clearly not providing enough warmth from the biting cold he had just braved in pursuit of condoms. Sherlock was tempted to move over and share body heat but he knew it was a bad idea. Just five minutes more. That was all.

The ride back passed in silence and Sherlock could feel his heart clambering higher and higher in his chest with every house they passed. It felt like a ridiculously long time before the cab finally slowed in front of the familiar hunk of white stone, though he knew it couldn't have been more than three or four minutes. John immediately dug a hand into his pocket for money but Sherlock was too quick for him. He shoved two fifty pound notes at the cabbie and dragged John out by his sleeve, ignoring his indignant protests.

He didn't let him go until the cab was safely away from the curb. "I was going to pay for that!" John burst out, while Sherlock was fumbling for his house key. "I can't believe you jus- just-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jammed the key into the door. "Do you really want to talk about this now?"

John seemed to weigh up his desire to berate Sherlock against his desire for sex and ruled in favour of the latter because he shut up remarkably fast. Sherlock thrust the door open with slightly too much force and it bounced off the wall with a deafening smash. The hum of voices from the drawing room abruptly stopped.

"Shit," he hissed, yanking John inside by the arm and slamming the door closed. "Come on!"

"What-" John began confusedly before he was rather roughly wrenched up the stairs.

"Sherlock! What is the meaning of this!" came Mycroft's cry as they were nearing the second floor landing.

Sherlock let go of John's arm and began to tear off his coat, blindly tripping on the stairs and almost falling flat on his face more than once. He yanked out the condoms and lube from the pocket and dropped his coat over the banister and straight onto his brother's upturned face below.

" _Sherlock_!"

He sniggered. Behind him John gave a laugh he hadn't heard for too long. He stopped in the hallway and whirled around. He took John by the waist and threw him ( _gently_ ) against the closest wall. John's eyes widened momentarily with surprise but he didn't miss a beat. He threw his hands around Sherlock's neck and dragged him into a feverish kiss.

John's lips were still cold, but the inside of his mouth was perfectly warm. Sherlock hungrily deepened the kiss, wrenching John's lips open and running his hands over John's waist and hips. He could hear his brother on the landing below. He forced John's mouth wider until the shorter boy's eyes widened with alarm as Sherlock's tongue was shoved a little too deep in his mouth. He gave a helpless cough.

Sherlock broke away with a smirk, dragging John towards his room. Mycroft reached the top of the stairs just as they slammed the door shut behind them. Sherlock locked the door, slumping against it to catch his breath. The corner of the condom box was digging into the palm of his hand.

John was watching him, a smile pasted across his face and every inch of him gloriously ready to be had. He was very pink from the cold and his hair was almost all sticking up. He probably hadn't ever looked less like Redverse's star football player but he had never been so perfect to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and dropped the precious supplies onto his vanity. He stared at John, still panting from the violent ascent from the street. John's smile faltered. He turned a darker shade of pink, as though he was aware that Sherlock had already began undressing him with his eyes. He still got so flustered by Sherlock's attentions. If it had been physically possible, the mere sight of John like this would have made Sherlock even harder. But the pressure and heat between his legs was so intense that he doubted that anything could have made it worse.

Before John could fully catch his breath, Sherlock forced him backwards against one of the posts of his bed. John gave a surprised yelp that was muffled by Sherlock's lips violently claiming his again and his body coming suddenly into contact with the post and Sherlock's hips. Sherlock pinned him forcefully against it, wrenching a muffled whimper from John's mouth. His crotch was flush against John's, all that separated them were jeans.

Sherlock blindly ripped John's jumper upwards. John raised his arms without opening his eyes, not seeming to want to release Sherlock's lips from his for a second. Sherlock could feel the delicate woollen material giving against his hands but- hell he'd buy John ten new jumpers if he demanded it after this. He tore it off of him and dropped it beside them. John was wearing a very crumpled blue t-shirt underneath. Sherlock ran his eyes feverishly over John's torso.

"Not ironed?" he couldn't help quipping. "You bad boy."

John flushed almost furiously red and licked his lips. The outline of his mouth was raw from Sherlock's kiss. He unconsciously snaked out his tongue and licked at it again and just about brought Sherlock to his knees. "Maybe I'm sick of being a... a good boy all the time," John stammered, his attempt to talk dirty sabotaged by his evidently overwhelming arousal. He had an almost dazed expression on his face and Sherlock couldn't help thinking how delicious it would be to push him over the edge. It wouldn't be hard.

Sherlock smirked and lowered a hand to the front of John's protruding jeans. "Intriguing. And what does this new, naughty John Watson want me to do to him?"

John looked up at him under his eyelashes with such an expression that made Sherlock almost take him then and there. "F-fuck me."

Sherlock's smirk widened, he pressed his body flush against John. "What was that?" he hissed into the skin of John's neck. It was positively clammy now. It didn't take much to make the boy hot.

Sherlock revelled in the double-meaning in his own words.

" _Fuck_ me," John said, with a whimper that when straight to Sherlock's crotch.

Sherlock groaned and buried his face in John's neck. John dug a hand into his hair, raising his head a few inches with a barely audible gasp. Sherlock gave John's skin a firm suck. He wanted to brand him. He wanted John to look like he'd been ravished, like someone had used him until he ran dry. He ravaged John's neck with his teeth, with his tongue, with his lips. He knew how to suck, how to bite to make fierce red welts on John's flesh. By tomorrow everyone would know that John belonged to someone, that he was Sherlock's.

John's constant, breathless little moans seemed to all be purposely designed to add another simmering layer to Sherlock's already dangerously high level of arousal. His dick was straining against his jeans and it hurt like hell. He could feel the equally taut mound between John's legs pushed against his thigh and practically begging to be tended to.

He dropped to his knees, refraining from wincing as the material of his jeans tightened around his crotch to excruciating heights.

"What are you..." John said helplessly, gripping the post of the bed with one hand.

Sherlock's fingers were trembling but he managed to loosen the buttons and zip on John's trousers and yank them down. John's familiar grey underwear greeted him, barely concealing the magnificent protrusion of his hard-on. Sherlock gripped John's thighs and pressed his mouth against John's still sheathed sex. John cried out in surprise, bucking weakly against him and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

When he came away, he felt a thread of saliva between his tongue and the material straining over John's erection. John made a sound like a whine and his hand curled into a fist in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock put both his thumbs into John's underwear and with a firm tug, he was revealed in all his glory.

It was already beaded with pre-cum. He ran a hand gently up the underside of John's shaft. John bucked his hips with a hapless toss of his head. "Sherlock-"

Sherlock straightened up before John could catch his breath and firmly pushed him onto the bed. John tumbled backwards onto the covers for the second time that day, gaping up at Sherlock with a ridiculously delectable expression of helplessness on his deeply flushed face. His jeans and underwear were still wrapped around his knees. Sherlock yanked them down with some difficulty and little help from John, who seemed to have become momentarily immobilized.

He tossed them across the carpet and touched the buttons on his own jeans. This seemed to bring John sharply back to earth. He shot upright and yanked Sherlock into a messy, sticky embrace. John's cock was pushed so hard against his that his eyes almost rolled back in his head. John clumsily mashed his mouth against his, while his hands worked down the slim length of Sherlock's waist to the hem of his shirt.

"You and your fucking buttons," John mumbled against his mouth, taking one between his fingers.

Sherlock had been about to reply when he felt John rip his shirt open with enough force that most of the buttons were either completely torn off or much damaged. John groaned into the kiss, thrusting Sherlock upright and hurriedly yanking the rest out of their holes.

"Ah!" he burst out as John's mouth suddenly shot much lower on his person. "God, John..."

John's mouth slipped in an ungainly manner over his right nipple, but Sherlock had never felt anything better than John's untrained mouth on him. John's hands slid down to rest on his hips. The sensitive skin below Sherlock's navel flinched as John's fingers grazed it. John lapped at the erect nub, teasing it like he was about to devour it and then taking it gently between his teeth. Sherlock dug a hand deep into John's blonde hair. Even the sensation of John's thick hair between his fingers was close to orgasmic. He had to resist the urge to rub his hands through it.

Sherlock felt the crown of John's cock damply graze the inside of his thigh. He forced him back against the bed and hastily shed his shirt, the expression of unrestrained need on John's face more than compensation for the loss of his mouth. John blinked at him but didn't protest. His legs were splayed open and his dick was leaking pre-cum and practically begging for attention. Sherlock unbuttoned his own jeans, feeling John's eyes running over every inch of his body, every limb, every freckle, every bone, every line. He kicked his jeans off and touched the band of his underwear, avoiding looking at himself when he knew how embarrassingly hard he was. He knew John was taking in every inch of it, he could almost feel John's eyes on it, caressing it and touching it.

He crawled carefully onto the bed and over John. John touched his waist, leaning up to brush his lips against his. He opened his mouth in a manner Sherlock had never seen him do so before. It was wanton. It was meant to send spasms of lust down Sherlock's body to his crotch. He could already tell that John was losing his inhibitions, his awkwardness. He wasn't afraid to be dirty- for want of a better word- in front of Sherlock any longer. Or least not for tonight. Even if it was just for tonight, it was enough. John trusted him. John trusted him more than anyone.

Sherlock brushed John's hair back from his damp forehead. John released a soft breath. "C-condom-"

Sherlock nodded and slipped off the bed. He could hardly walk. His legs felt like they were going to give out with every step and he was shaking. His fingers were clammy as he fumbled with the box. He tore it open and hastily yanked out the paper instructions. He tossed them onto the vanity and plucked out one of the eight or nine condoms inside.

When he turned, he was greeted by the exquisite sight of John sprawled completely undressed on _his_ bed, every limb damp and every inch of his body taut with anticipation. Sherlock felt for the lube bottle behind him without daring to take his eyes off John. John was still trying to keep his legs rather too close together, but Sherlock would soon change that.

He knelt on the end of the bed, conscious of John's eyes fixed on the condom in his hand. He handed it to him wordlessly and then tugged his underwear down his thighs. John was clearly trying not to stare but there was a slightly alarmed expression on his face that he couldn't completely disguise when he was half paralysed by lust. Sherlock stroked a thumb down his cheek.

"Don't be scared. I..." He swallowed thickly. His mouth felt full of sticky saliva. "I love you." Each word trembled uncontrollably.

John looked at him. For a moment he seemed frozen where he was and then he gave a very slight nod and held out the unopened packet. Sherlock could see his hands and knees were shuddering as he crawled onto them. Sherlock swallowed as he took in John's new position. The perfect curve of his back, his utter vulnerability, his willingness to give himself to Sherlock even though he was scared. It was almost too much. It almost sent Sherlock giddy.

He gave himself an inward shake and crawled up and pressed a gentle kiss to John's ear. "Lay down. It'll make it easier," he said softly.

John shot him a sharp look but didn't argue. He collapsed flat onto the bed and pulled the pillow down to rest his chin against it. His hands were already half-buried in the covers. "Sherlock..." he said breathlessly as Sherlock straightened up.

Sherlock nodded and tore open the condom with as much poise as he could when he had John on his stomach, with his legs spread so wide for him. John tilted his head towards him when he rolled the rubber onto himself. His eyes were very wide. He bit his lip, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. Sherlock purposely slowed down, seeing John was clearly getting off on the sight of him almost touching himself. His hand was teasingly close to the aching, burning, pulsing _mess_ that his crotch was in right now. He could hardly breathe. His whole body was tingling with almost feverish warmth.

"Hurry, Sherlock. P-please hurry," John said and his voice was choked full of lust. And the faintest trace of anxiety.

Sherlock knelt between John's legs and allowed himself a moment to reflect on the most glorious fact that he was about to fuck John Watson. That John was captain of the football team, the guy everyone wanted to be friends with, the object of his lust suddenly seemed minute details in the equation. What he felt for John had surpassed pure lust a long time ago. He didn't know when, he didn't know how but somewhere along the line he had fallen in love with John Watson.

"Bend your knees a little," he said, urging John's leg down a couple of inches.

John did as he was told, his arms wrapped around the pillow and his head tilted to one side. Sherlock could see him watching him. He watched John's back rise and fall with breaths that were a little harder and shorter than usual. He picked up the bottle of lube and tipped it upside down. It came out surprisingly fast, seeing how long it had been sitting on that counter.

He adorned the outside of the condom with a good handful of it. He knew it was way too much and subsequently had it all over his hands, but he wasn't taking any chances with John. He paused, glancing down to the spread of John's legs and the puckered pink entrance that was just visible and then squeezed some more of the gel onto his fingers.

He touched the inside of John's legs as warning. John jerked and strained to look at him. Sherlock kept one hand on John's leg and then gently touched the curve of John's arse, urging his legs a little wider for him. John was tense as hell. He could feel that every muscle in his body was tight. "Relax," he said unsteadily, his cock giving a desperate throb.

He slowly slid a finger inside of John, biting his lip to keep from moaning at the sensation of the taut muscle around it. John inhaled sharply, his hands tightened around the covers but he didn't protest. Sherlock pressed his finger in deep and then gently inserted another, gnawing on his bottom lip as the excruciatingly arousing thought that he was _inside_ John threatened to send him over the edge.

"Sherlock!" John suddenly yelped, his whole body jerking.

Sherlock scissored his fingers and John practically writhed on the bed. He buried his face into the pillow with a barely suppressed sob. Sherlock slid in a third and John's back curled with a muffled cry.

"It's alright," Sherlock said, as soothingly as he could while every fibre of his being wanted nothing more than to fuck John senseless. "It'll feel wonderful. You just have to get used to it. I promise you."

John nodded, still half tangled up in the pillows. Sherlock pulled out his fingers and immediately pressed his cock against John's entrance. He realised he had stopped breathing, that his heart seemed to have stopped beating and his blood running and his brain functioning. There seemed to be nothing but ringing silence all around him, broken by the gasps of John below him.

He gave a shuddery breath and John another soft sob as he eased his way inside of him. He threw his head back with an unrestrained moan as John's hole swallowed him in. John tossed his head to one side with a silent scream of pain.

Sherlock wished he could have been capable of easing John's momentary distress but the sensation was too perfect, too unbelievably perfect. " _Hgh_ -God! Oh fucking-" he garbled, almost shredding his bottom lip with his teeth in a fruitless attempt to silence himself.

John arched his back with a soft moan, the pillow case caught between his teeth. "Sherlock!" he cried out.

Sherlock pushed himself all the way in, almost speechless at the sensation, the tightness of John around him. He was deep inside John and it was so blindingly pleasurable that he thought himself in danger of dying from the sensation. He took John's hips in his hands, pulling John up another half-inch from the covers. John's body was trembling uncontrollably, his hands seemed in danger of shredding through the covers he was holding on so tight.

"Jo-John," Sherlock panted, rolling his hips back and releasing John from him for half a moment. He leant a hand heavily into the covers. "Feels so... so fucking-"

He thrust back in hard. John gave a violent spasm against the bed. "Ngh! Sherlock!"

Sherlock's hand was clutching John's hip so tightly he could feel he was leaving welts on his skin. John's back was curved at an almost 90 degree angle. Sherlock's head seemed in constant danger of colliding with his.

John twisted around, Sherlock felt his body shift against his cock. He caught his bottom lip viciously between his teeth. Fuck. It felt so incredibly-

"Sherlock..." John whimpered. Sherlock made the mistake of focusing on his face. His eyes were full of tears, his mouth was viciously swollen and red. He looked like he had been attacked by something and it was unnatural how it affected Sherlock.

"Fuck, John," he groaned, hunching over him.

Somewhere in his foggy, lust-drunk brain he realised that John was probably in pain and wanted this to stop, but he knew from experience it got better. And at the back of his brain, he just... Well, he knew it was terrible but he just didn't care at that moment. It was too hard to care. He was buried up to the hilt inside of John. He wasn't capable of caring.

John gave a weak groan and curled over into the bed. Sherlock had a hunch that John had a mouthful of his pillow. "Harder-" he said in a muffled voice.

Sherlock almost stopped out of pure surprise. John's hands curled into the material of his bed. "Harder, Sherlock!" he said in a shrill voice.

When Sherlock thrust into him this time, John writhed against the bed with a guttural sound that was almost ruined by the presence of the pillow over his mouth. "L-Louder-" Sherlock panted. "Tell me... Tell me where you... you like it-"

"There!" John sobbed, gnashing at the pillow. "Feels so good there!"

Sherlock hit John's prostrate with aggressive accuracy and John gave a violent convulsion. "Oh-Fu-"

Sherlock could hear the bed slamming against the wall in time with his thrusts. When he got faster, the bed got faster, when he slowed down, the bed slowed down. He had a feeling that there would be some serious damage to his wall in the morning. Not to mention his pillow.

"Harder!" John cried out, managing to untangle himself from the pillow for long enough to scream that word into the silence of the bedroom. Well, silence apart from the sound of Sherlock slapping against John as he pushed into him.

Sherlock moaned aloud. God, John was so good at talking dirty and he didn't even know it. He knew he was hitting John's prostrate every time. He had read enough biology books, had enough experience to know when he had the perfect angle and was hitting someone's sweet spot over and over. John's cries mutated from "Oh Sherlock! _Fuck_ Sherlock!" to an intelligible jumble of "ngh-fu-ah!" Sherlock didn't think he was physically capable of feeling smug at that moment but the mere thought that he was giving John the most intense pleasure he had ever felt filled him with a fierce glow.

Sherlock wasn't in any position to verbalize anything more than the vaguest cries of John's name. Sometimes they didn't even _sound_ like John's name. His mouth seemed to just want to make taut groaning, grunting sounds that were forced from his throat without him even being aware of forming words.

John didn't seem to be in any state to speak now. He was clearly being fast overcome by his impending orgasm. He was absolutely out of his mind with pleasure and it was obvious. He probably would have agreed to sell Sherlock his soul if Sherlock had asked him at that moment. He was perfect in this state. He was writhing around like a stuck animal and all but fucking the covers beneath him. Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was going to have John's seed all over his covers but unless his brother decided to inspect his bed (though Sherlock wouldn't be surprised...) there was really no danger in John being all over his cover, all over his belongings-

" _Jesus_ ," he snarled. That image was too damn hot when he was in this position.

John choked beneath him. "Sherlock- Go- Gotta-ngh- Going to-"

Sherlock felt fiercely close to it himself. He felt like he had coated himself in lube, he was so wet and so... slimy. There was really no other word for it. He was drenched in sweat and his body was burning. He couldn't imagine being cold when he was this hot all over. John was equally damp. Sherlock thought he was probably well and truly sealed to the bed covers now.

"Louder, J-John-" he managed to splutter out. The heat and pressure around his crotch felt like it was beginning to fuse together. "I... I want... to hear."

John whimpered into the pillow. "C-can't."

Sherlock gripped his waist hard. "Now!" he said sharply, thrusting roughly into John's prostate.

John made a heady, needy almost strangled sound that Sherlock had never thought he'd be able to wrench from his self-conscious, repressed mouth. His figure gave an uncontrolled thrash against the bed. "Ngh-O-oh. Sherlock... I- I love-you s-so much." He was definitely beyond being reached now. Sherlock would have smirked if he hadn't been balls deep inside of John's arse and incapable of forming words.

John was so close to coming. Sherlock could feel it in his body movements. The way John's breathing was close to non-existent and was coming in violent, sporadic spurts. Sherlock slid a hand underneath him. John's hips were propped up about three inches from the covers and it was a squeeze getting his hand under but John, whether intentionally or not, arched his hips a little higher and granted him full, glorious access to the underside of his naked form.

He took John's erection in hand. It was wet as hell. John hunched back over the pillow, harder and closer than before. He was reverting back to his inaudible strain of half-muffled sobs. With about as much skill as a chimp, Sherlock began to clumsily pump John's cock in time with his increasingly rough, ungainly thrusts. John turned his head towards him and Sherlock caught sight of his face. It was pasted with sweat and positively glowing. His eyes were wide open and leaking. And he had a corner of the pillow wedged between his teeth.

With the image of John's blank ecstasy burning in his mind, Sherlock threw his head back with a strangled moan and thrust once more inside of him, he hit John's sweet spot with dizzyingly pinpoint accuracy, more than even he had anticipated.

John shuddered uncontrollably and screamed. It was half-muffled by the pillow but it was still enough to echo around the confines of Sherlock's room. Sherlock screwed up his eyes as he felt his own orgasm take hold of his body.

"Sherlock!" The volume of John's voice had reached a perfect squeal.

"Fuck!" he growled, yanking John so hard against him that it was more than a little painful. "Fuck! John!"

His seed burst against the restraint of the condom. His left hand was still wrapped around John's cock. He could feel John's ejaculate dripping down his hand. John's face was buried into the pillow.

Sherlock leant on both hands to support himself. He tried to catch his breath, when it felt like he would never breathe (let alone walk) normally again. John was panting desperately, every so often Sherlock heard a barely audible whimper or sob. He carefully pulled out of him, staring down at the uninspiring sight of his softening cock in its plastic glove. The half an inch space between his crown and the tip of the condom was brimming. There was a little bit of blood on the outside, but that was to be expected seeing as John had been tight as all fucking hell.

He left John on the bed and peeled it off, wrapping it in a tissue and dropping it into his waste paper basket with a resounding clunk. He walked back to the bed, his legs quivering and his head spinning and his mouth dry and his crotch aching and his knees burning. It was the best feeling in the world.

He sat behind John on the bed and gently touched the base of his back. When John didn't move, he lowered himself over him and planted a soft kiss in the centre of his shoulder blades. John's skin was salty and wet.

"Are you alright?" he said gently.

John slowly shook his head into the pillow. "Can't walk ever again."

Sherlock contained the desire to laugh and sat beside him, running a hand through John's sweaty hair. "You're such a pillow biter," he said, trying to tug it out of his boyfriend's grip.

John tilted his head in his direction. There were tear tracks on his face, mingling with the sweat on his face. "Ouch, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt a pang of remorse. "I'm sorry," he said, stroking back the hair that was sticking to John's forehead. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's alright," John said in a raw voice, attempting an unsteady smile. "I knew it was going to hurt. It just... hurt a lot more than I thought."

"But it felt good after that?" Sherlock said, partly for his own ego's sake.

John studied his face, too used to Sherlock's occasional moments of intense self-satisfaction to be fooled by that innocent question. "It was ok," he said mildly, his eyes glinting.

"Oh, _please_!" Sherlock burst out. "You climaxed like a bloody fire hose! Don't you dare try and tell me you didn't enjoy every moment of that."

John rolled his eyes. "Thank you for wording it so delicately," he said flatly. "Bloody narcissist."

Sherlock just smirked. John struggled up onto his knees and slumped over on his back. His stomach was plastered with the remnants of his orgasm.

Sherlock eyed it. "Need help cleaning up?"

John nodded almost shyly.

Sherlock leant over him, licking the salty fluid off John's stomach. John sucked in a breath. He cleaned up as much of the mess as he could and left John coated in a layer of his saliva from his ribs to his pubic bone.

When he looked up John's eyes were half-closed. "You're already falling asleep?" he quipped, without any real force. "Light-weight."

John swatted a hand at him and rolled onto his side. Sherlock crawled up next to him. Despite the stickiness and the way John's hair stuck up his nose it was supremely satisfying.

Sherlock certainly hadn't experienced an orgasm that was even in the same ballpark as the one he had just felt tear through him. He hoped it had been the same for John. Well... he had certainly screamed pretty loudly. Sherlock could hazard an assumption that it had.

"You alright?" he said again softly into John's ear.

"Yeah," John replied, his voice extremely husky. "I'm f-fine." He hesitated. "Better than fine. I... that was..."

Sherlock slid his hands around John's waist. "I know. I was there."

"So are you naturally that good, or was that a fluke?" John quipped.

"I'm just naturally a sex god," Sherlock deadpanned.

John laughed and twisted around in his arms to face him. Sherlock studied his face, he looked a complete mess. His eyes were puffy, his mouth looked like he had been stung by something, his fringe was sticking to his forehead but Sherlock couldn't have named one flaw on his face.

"I hope you clean your own sheets," John said in a low voice. He cringed. Sherlock could feel the damp patch too.

"Don't worry," he replied. "I'll make sure it gets cleaned discreetly. Don't want Mycroft to see the mess you made all over my bed."

John wrinkled his nose. "He better not. He already hates me."

"No, he doesn't," Sherlock said, tracing the outline of John's nose with his eyes. "He doesn't know you from a bar of soap. He'd be like that to whoever I was with."

John was silent. "Seems like we both have pretty fucked up home lives," he said at length, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "If my dad knew what I just did he would..." He shook his head. "I don't even want to..."

"You'll have to tell him sometime," Sherlock said, as gently as he could. He didn't want John to think he was going to force him to come out to his parents. That sort of thing could mentally scar a teenage boy. He would know.

"Yeah, I will," John said slowly. "When I graduate Redverse and have a job... and own some sort of firearm... then I will tell him."

Sherlock shrugged. "Up to you."

John sighed and to Sherlock's disappointment, pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip and threw his legs over the side of the bed. "Your parents are different. They're... I dunno. Cool, I guess."

Sherlock leant against the bars of the bed with a short laugh. "Yeah, if you find borderline neglect "cool" then I guess they are."

John turned to look at him. Sherlock knew what was coming. He should have known Mycroft would only tell John enough to whet his appetite and make him want to ask questions. He wanted to make things difficult between John and Sherlock, telling John the whole story would have been counterproductive.

"What really happened?" John said uncertainly. "Back then."

"If you stop bleeding all over my bedspread maybe I'll tell you," Sherlock said drily.

John looked down quickly. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, standing up at the sight of blood spots on the covers where he'd been sitting. "Sherlock, you've-you- broke-"

"No, you can't _break_ someone's arsehole," Sherlock interjected, rolling his eyes. "It's natural to bleed a little. Trust me. Girls bleed too."

"Yeah, but they have a fucking hymen! They're supposed to bleed!"

"Nice, John," Sherlock said flatly. "If you stop carrying on a hysterical lunatic for two seconds and calm down I'll have a look."

John stopped rubbing his arse and stared. "I'm not letting you look at me... there."

"I've done more than look at it, John," Sherlock reminded him. "If you remember."

"F-fine..." John said, almost pouting. He knelt on the bed with his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock gingerly touched the area in question. It looked a little sore and red but there was really nothing. Very little blood and certainly no evidence that Sherlock had done irreversible damage. "It's fine," he said, straightening up. "Just a tiny bit of blood."

John nodded. "Fine. You could have been gentler. You were ploughing into me like a fucking bulldozer."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I must have misconstrued the meaning of the word _harder_."

John glowered at him but didn't argue. Sherlock slumped against the bars of the bed again and John sat next to him, leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder. They stared down at the rumpled mess of Sherlock's bed covers, covered in John's blood and semen and the empty condom packet. Not to mention the lube. He was tempted to leave it as it was as a surprise for Mycroft when he came snooping.

"I made some really stupid mistakes," Sherlock said at length, reluctantly moving to face John. It would be better if he could just say all this crap very fast. He didn't want to think about the words leaving his mouth. "My parents never paid much attention to me. And Mycroft..." He gave a sharp bark of laugher. "Didn't really have anything to distract me. There were these boys at school. Everyone knew they were sods." John gave a disapproving cough at that description. "They smoked and drank behind the bike sheds and... well, did a lot of things behind the bike sheds in general."

John was staring up at him intently. It was extremely off-putting when he was trying to word spew everything up as fast as possible without taking note of John's facial expression. "I was bored," he said, in a pathetic attempt at an excuse. "I hadn't learnt how to deal with it... I was only fourteen. I was just too young and too stupid."

"You slept around?" John said, with a very blank expression. He obviously already knew that but it didn't seem like a good sign that he wanted confirmation.

"N-not really," Sherlock said, avoiding his eye. "Nowhere near as much as Mycroft makes it seem like. And I was just... fourteen. I was stupid."

He heard the springs of his bed give a low groan and looked up to find John leaning towards him. His expression was oddly devoid of anger for someone who was about to tell him where to go for being such a stupid idiot. To Sherlock's immense surprise, John leant forward and pressed a brief, soft kiss on his lips. "You were fourteen. God knows you weren't ready for whatever the hell you got yourself into, but it's the past. Do you really think I'd hold something like that against you?"

Sherlock gave an embarrassed cough. "Put me off sex for life," he mumbled, resting back against the bars. "Well, for two years at least."

John snorted. "Well, that's more self-control than most teenage boys have."

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't really think he had shown a remarkable amount of self-control in his lifetime, especially since almost as soon as he had given up sex, the empty void had been replaced by lusting mindlessly after John. He decided not to say this aloud.

John exhaled softly next to him; his cheek was resting on his shoulder. "So... when can we do it again?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I've created a monster."

\--

John awoke feeling much colder than when he fell asleep. Fortunately sometime during the night he and Sherlock seemed to have migrated under the covers. He slid his leg across the mattress, expecting to feel warm skin but Sherlock's side was empty.

He sat up, rubbing his head and feeling the tender area between his buttocks give a twinge. It wasn't as painful as he had thought. Well, when Sherlock had first stuck it in he thought he had just been impaled. But it got so much better. The initial pain was balanced out by the eventual mind-blowing, toe curling, stomach imploding high at the end. He didn't know if sex was always that good or Sherlock was just gifted.

Speaking of which, he had no idea where he had got to. John rolled over onto his stomach, groaning into the pillow. He could feel it was covered in teeth marks and imprints from where he had been gnashing his teeth into it.

"Still not up?" Sherlock appeared in the doorway, already dressed in clean clothes and with damp hair. "Seems to me that someone's forgotten the fifth deadly sin." He tossed his damp towel on his vanity and came to the edge of the bed.

John fought with the foolish grin that almost broke out onto his face at the sight of him. "I thought you'd skipped out on me," he said, conscious of how thick and gravelly his voice sounded.

Sherlock brushed back his hair with a small, almost undetectable smile. "You've been around Marty Hester for _way_ too long," he quipped. "You probably expected me to make you do the walk of shame or something." He paused, his expression softening. "How are you, anyway?"

"Sore," John muttered, rubbing his back in a corroborating fashion. Though his back wasn't really the body part that was hurting.

"Don't worry, it'll pass," Sherlock said gently. "Though I'd admittedly be a little disappointed if you didn't have a permanent limp to remember last night by," he added slyly.

"I'll give you a permanent limp if you don't shut up," John snapped, swatting away his hand.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, sobering a little too quickly to be convincing. "I noticed you haven't opened your present yet." His eyes were glinting in a vaguely discomforting manner. "We could do it now?"

"I guess," John sighed, flopping down onto his back. "You get it. I'm not hobbling around the house. Mycroft might see me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but obliged. When he was gone, John finally allowed himself to smile. It was the widest, most ridiculous smile he had ever worn but he felt happier than he had in months. He had Sherlock, Sherlock had him (no pun intended) and nothing else mattered. He had the welts on his hips to prove it. And his neck.

He touched the tender skin. It was going to be very red. He didn't know if he and Sherlock could have done anything more perfectly designed to infuriate Mycroft. He'd see John covered in Sherlock's lovebites and bruises and know exactly what happened. John had no reason to resent Mycroft but it was satisfying to know that his best attempts to sabotage them had been foiled.

"Here you go," Sherlock said, reappearing and chucking the soft package into his lap. It was wrapped in green paper patterned with reindeer.

He went across to the window where he kept a packet of cigarettes hidden behind the curtains. John watched him take one out and light it. He looked back at the present and tore open the thin layer.

"A shirt?" he said blankly, staring at the white cotton.

Sherlock turned to him, his eyes positively illuminated. He nodded, taking a brief drag and exhaling out of the window. "Open it properly."

John pulled it out and held it up. His eyes widened. " _Sherlock_!" he choked.

Across it in curly black letters were the words "I heart cock", embellished with a large red heart in place of the word. John shook his head in disbelief. He had seen these in just about every trashy clothing store in London. He could feel a stupid grin threatening to overtake his features. He should have been furious. It was just about the most insensitive, vulgar present he had ever received and yet he was so close to bursting out laughing like a maniac.

He lowered it. Sherlock seemed to be struggling against uncontrollable sniggers that were making him choke on his cigarette smoke. "Serves you right," John shot at him. "You pervert."

"Well, see if it fits then," Sherlock said, grinding his cigarette out on the windowsill and coming across to kneel on the bed.

"I'm not wearing this!" John burst out. "It's not because I have a problem with being... being... _gay_." He said the word without actually saying it, mouthing the word like he'd seen his mother do with the word "sex" numerous times. "I don't have a problem with being..." He licked his lip. " _Gay_ ," he mouthed. "I just don't want to get beaten to death in the street."

"This is London, John," Sherlock said flatly. "Not the deep south of America. Besides, I have no intention of letting you walk around advertising yourself to all those unscrupulous people who would take advantage of a piece of blonde jailbait like you."

"Thanks a lot!" John spluttered. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.

"Besides," he said, rolling across the bed and snatching his phone off the bedside table. "Seeing as you didn't get _me_ a present..."

John stared at him. "You've got to be joking."

"Oh come on," Sherlock said bracingly. "It's not child pornography until I turn eighteen."

"No," John said flatly.

He tumbled off the side of the bed. He was only dressed in one of Sherlock's old, oversized t-shirts that he'd donned as makeshift pyjamas. He pretended he couldn't see Sherlock following him with his eyes.

John had to admit that the thought of posing for Sherlock made him unjustifiably horny. He was still aching from the night before and he was already thinking ahead to when he could have Sherlock on top of him again. That he could even be _thinking_ about getting off again when he couldn't even walk properly seemed sick at best.

Sherlock sighed and stood up. "Oh well. Nobody said that losing your virginity would stop you being such a prude."

"I am not a prude," John said, narrowing his eyes.

"You can't say the word "gay" without looking like you're hacking up a hairball," Sherlock said archly.

"What about if you "accidentally" post them on the net or something?" John retorted.

Sherlock snorted. "As amusing as it would be to see Marty Hester's face at the sight of _that_ , I have no intention of sharing you with anyone if I can help it."

John hesitated, the possessive edge to Sherlock's voice was a blatant turn-on. He glanced at the shirt lying limply on Sherlock's bed. He bit his lip. He could feel his cock twinge between his legs.

"Ok," he said finally, rolling his eyes in a long-suffering manner. He didn't want Sherlock to think he was actually going to enjoy this.

Sherlock's face brightened. "Excellent."

John got the feeling that he was giving himself an inward pat on the back. John shook his head and knelt on the bed. Sherlock sat on the end of the bed, fumbling with his phone and looking positively gleeful.

John touched the hem of Sherlock's old, misshapen t-shirt and hesitated. This felt so much more dirty... so much more intimidating than sex. He'd be on display. He'd have nothing to stop Sherlock seeing every flaw on his body. His heart seemed to speed up in his chest.

"You have nothing to worry about, John," Sherlock said quietly, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking. "You're perfect."

John gave a half shrug, though he felt a foolish, inward glow at Sherlock's words. He yanked the t-shirt off fast before he could have second thoughts. The cold air against his bare skin made him gasp aloud; he quickly grabbed the white shirt and pulled it over his head. It was only long enough to reach his hips.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. His eyes were tracing the outline of John's figure. The shirt was a little tight. No doubt Sherlock had been more than aware of that when he bought it.

"You look-" Sherlock broke off with a small shake of his head.

"Well, I'm glad someone's having fun" John grumbled, leaning against the pillows and pinning his legs together.

"Oh no, open those legs," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "You didn't get me a present, you can do it properly."

Blushing furiously, John fixed his eyes on the post behind Sherlock's head and slowly parted his legs. He knew he was hard, without even looking and he didn't need Sherlock's amused snigger to confirm it for him.

"Shut up," John said crossly. "It's your fault."

"I should think so," Sherlock said, tilting his head behind his phone.

It clicked. John flushed deeper. He could feel the shirt clinging to every single inch of him. His shoulders, his nipples, his stomach.

"I know you're getting off on this," Sherlock said, one eye closed. "So you might as well relax."

_ Click _ went the phone.

"Fuck you," John said out of the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock grinned. "Don't be shy. You could do this for a living. Personally, I think you could give those boys on _Slab_ a run for their money." _Click, click, click._

"How many are you fucking taking!" John snapped, looking at him.

"Wait, hold it like that," Sherlock said. John could see from where he was sitting that Sherlock was beginning to get into trouble himself.

He hesitated for half a moment, wondering if he dared. Then with an inward smirk he crawled onto his hands and knees. Sherlock lowered the camera. "Getting bolder, are we?"

John deposited himself in front of him and silently fingered the buttons on Sherlock's jeans. Sherlock immediately understood, though he didn't seem to completely believe his luck. He stared at him, his jaw going slack.

Without wasting another moment he swang around where he was, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and undoing his buttons and zipper at lightning speed.

John hurriedly got to his knees in front of him. He was still wearing Sherlock's present but he had a hunch that Sherlock wouldn't complain. Sherlock raised his hips and yanked his jeans down his thighs, his eyes fixed on John's face.

John raised a hand and rubbed Sherlock's erection through the material of his underwear. Sherlock groaned. "Don't you dare tease me. You think you're in pain now..."

John rolled his eyes but didn't retort. He jerked Sherlock's underwear down to his knees. Sherlock's hand gripped his hair a little harder than what was comfortable.

"If you pull my hair out, I'll bite you," he mumbled, teasing the crown with his tongue.

Sherlock made a non-committal moan, rocking his hips up. John took him deep into his throat and then slowly released him, leaving a trail of saliva behind. Sherlock liked it when he made him as wet as possible (in all senses of the word) and John was always at pains to get as much spit as he could on Sherlock's dick before he sucked him off.

"Your dick smells like strawberry," he remarked, as he lapped at the sensitive glands he knew drove Sherlock wild.

"Shut up," Sherlock panted. "It's Mycroft's shower gel."

"Gross. Just the image I want in my mind right now."

He slid his hand around the base of Sherlock's shaft, making a circle with his thumb and pointer finger and gently caressing Sherlock round and round in time with his sucks and licks. Sherlock was jerking forcefully into his mouth. He had to time his movements well or he had the danger of getting mouth fucked.

He struggled to push a hand between his own legs. His eyes threatened to roll back in his head for the umpteenth time in two days as he began to clumsily fondle himself. He was almost unnerved by his body's eagerness for contact so soon after the violence of the previous night.

"Feels... so good..." Sherlock gasped, still rocking roughly into John's mouth.

"Spread your legs," John said quickly, between licks.

Sherlock obliged. John removed his hand from its position on Sherlock's shaft and pushed it under him to play with the two sacs of flesh underneath. Sherlock tossed his head with fierce moan. When he made that moan that sounded like he was almost in pain, John knew he was getting close.

He took Sherlock in his other hand, abandoning his own aching hardness. He looked up as well as he could when he was being facefucked at an increasingly fervent rate. Sherlock looked extremely close to climaxing, if his breathing was anything to go by or the way he was clutching John's hair like a crazed monkey.

"John!" he cried out, almost choking John as he forced himself particularly hard into his mouth.

John was almost taken by surprise by the sudden burst of liquid into his throat but somehow managed to swallow it without suffocating. He felt it dribbling out of both corners of his mouth but Sherlock had a serious kink for watching him lick up his cum so he left it.

He gently pulled back, releasing Sherlock's softening member from his mouth and leaving a trail of saliva and semen behind. Sherlock released his hair less gently and John felt a hunk of his hair go with him.

"I swear you're a sadist," he said, rubbing his head and glowering at him.

Sherlock stared blearily at him. "Want me to help you with that?" He nodded to John's still hardened dick.

John knelt back and let Sherlock curl a hand around it. He shut his eyes with a soft moan as Sherlock began rubbing him with fierce intent. It didn't take long for Sherlock's agile fingers and his already brimming lust to work their magic. His seed leaked out of Sherlock's fingers and dribbled down his arm. John groaned and collapsed against him.

He panted breathlessly into Sherlock's shirt, Sherlock's hand still wrapped around him. "Better?" Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow as he straightened up.

"Much," John said, fighting with a blush.

They cleaned themselves up in record time. John had a shower while Sherlock stripped the bed and hastily hid away any incriminating evidence. The lube and condoms were put away in his sock drawer. It was too much to hope that Mycroft wasn't already perfectly aware of what they'd been up to all night but they could at least attempt to make it less obvious.

John folded Sherlock's "present" and put it away under his other shirts. A voyeuristic part of him couldn't help visualizing what his friends would do to him if they found it in his belongings at school. Crucifixion seemed almost too mild an expectation. He shivered and closed his drawer.

When he returned, Sherlock was sitting on his bed and his room looked as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. No condom packets, no mysterious stains, no interesting imprints on the pillows. John didn't think he'd ever be able to shake his reputation of being a "pillow biter" from now on but he could at least make sure Mycroft never found out.

Sherlock pulled him onto his lap and gave him an uncharacteristically affectionate squeeze. "What was that for?" John said, a little bashfully as he pulled away. "My reward for being successfully deflowered? You're not going to start leaving money on the bedside table every time we have sex, are you?"

Sherlock just shrugged. "No reason," he said, though his eyes were positively glowing.

John could have put it down to relief that he had finally gotten John into bed or another attempt to get into his pants but for once he chose not to torture himself by questioning Sherlock's motives and actions until his brain was sore. For once he was content to let himself accept the most obvious explanation as the true one. Sherlock loved him. Pure and simple.

_ End of Chapter Seventeen_


	18. Chapter 18

When Sherlock went down for breakfast on the day after Boxing Day, he found his brother in the kitchen. This was in itself a bizarre occurrence, as Sherlock rarely saw his brother before dinner and hadn't been aware that his brother even knew where the kitchen was, seeing as he mostly existed on coffee and one meal every two days.

He stopped short in the doorway, staring at his brother pouring himself another cup of coffee with his phone laying face up on the kitchen bench next to his leather-bound diary. "Good morning, Sherlock," he said, without looking up from the _Economic Inquirer_ also spread out in front of him.

"You didn't take a wrong turn on your way to the library, did you?" Sherlock replied archly. "I know those rectangular shaped objects _are_ rather misleading." He nodded to the row of cereal boxes on the shelf above the sink.

Mycroft sent him a withering glance. "I will miss your sparkling wit when you return to school, Sherlock." He folded the newspaper and nodded to the chair opposite him. "Sit down."

"John will be down in a minute, we're going out," Sherlock said.

"Surely you have a few minutes to spare beforehand," Mycroft said calmly. "In my brief experience, John tends to take his time when it comes to his personal appearance."

It wasn't a completely unfounded jibe. John could become a little overzealous in preening himself. It was compulsion, rather than vanity. A hair out of place or a wrinkle on his shirt was a serious source of distress to him.

"You can talk," Sherlock said tartly, conceding to sit down.

"Touché," Mycroft said, taking a measured sip of his coffee.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He knew his brother too well to be fooled by that hasty capitulation. "As much as I am enjoying this brotherly reconciliation, I would ask that you get on with whatever it is you intend to do. Apology-"

His brother gave a dubious chuckle.

"Or otherwise," Sherlock finished coldly.

Mycroft smiled placidly. If Sherlock thought that humiliating his brother in front of their relatives, going expressly against his wishes at every turn and then making violent and passionate love right above his head would ruffle him then he would have underestimated his brother's temperament. Though the knowledge that he was inwardly seething with rage was comforting.

"I don't intend to apologise for being concerned." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "That would suggest I did something wrong."

"Don't play games with me," Sherlock snapped. "I admit I have made some mistakes-"

Another dubious chuckle.

" _But_ I've more than atoned for them. My relationship with John is completely different in every respect to anything I've done in the past." He paused. His brother looked unmoved. "I can only assume that jealousy is the root of your interference."

It was a feeble accusation but he had nothing else at his disposal.

"Jealousy?" Mycroft said coolly.

Sherlock stood. "The sooner John and I get out of here, the better."

He turned and stalked towards the door.

"Sherlock?"

He came to an abrupt halt, just shy of colliding with John in the doorway. John frowned at him and then looked over his shoulder to where Mycroft was still seated. He immediately stiffened. He hadn't come face to face with him since Christmas Day.

"Mycroft," he stammered, with a barely concealed cringe. "Hi." He glanced quickly at Sherlock, as though he was somehow responsible for Mycroft's unexpected presence.

Sherlock turned slowly to his brother. He had known that defying Mycroft would have consequences. This awkward, little encounter was just the beginning of the torment he would inflict on John in their last days in London.

"Good morning, John," Mycroft said, with all of the composure that John couldn't muster.

Sherlock felt certain that Mycroft's sudden and frequent use of John's name, rather than his old favourite "your friend" was far from an accident. Sherlock didn't realise just how unnatural it was to hear John's name on Mycroft's lips. The way he drawled it made his skin crawl.

"Don't let me interrupt your breakfast," Mycroft said at length, when John didn't speak or move. "Sit down."

John didn't seem to dare look at Sherlock as he tentatively walked over and took the seat he had just vacated moments before.

"So what is the plan today?" Mycroft said silkily. "I trust you will want to see as much of London as possible while you're still here, John."

John was struggling to meet Mycroft's eye and Mycroft seemed to know it. His eyes were boring into John with almost unwavering viciousness. "I don't know," he said, in a tone more poised than Sherlock could have hoped.

"We're going to have breakfast out," Sherlock said, finally managing to find his voice.

"Oh, anywhere special?" Mycroft said, eyes still on John. John was steadily turning a brilliant shade of scarlet.

"I haven't decided yet," Sherlock said shortly. "John."

John stood so quickly, he hit his knee on the underside of the table.

"Well, enjoy," Mycroft said, as John hurried back towards Sherlock, hands buried deep in his pockets. "By the by." He added in an offhand tone, as they was about to leave. "As it is your last week in London, I could be induced to take you and John out."

"What do you mean _induced_?" Sherlock spat. "Why the hell would John and I want to go anywhere with you?" A boy could only take so much. Mycroft's insinuation that they would jump at the chance to be ferried around by him was too much for his hitherto angelic level of patience to take.

Mycroft raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "Well, a friend of a friend of mine owns a club in central London." He paused, an almost undetectable smirk flitting across his features. "And he owes me a favour."

"I _loathe_ clubs," Sherlock said venomously, his brother's serene expression sending a cascade of irritation and suspicion through him. "Why would I consent to go anywhere with you, much less some alcohol stained hole full of drunken morons?"

"Well," Mycroft said, thoughtfully raising his coffee cup to his lips with raised eyebrows. "That is a fair point, but I think you should consider making an exception."

Sherlock stared at him. "What?"

"Mother and father will be back by the end of the week," Mycroft said. He lowered his cup with a hard look. "They'll be very interested to know what their sons have been doing to occupy themselves all Christmas."

"No, they bloody won't be," Sherlock retorted. "They've probably already forgotten our names."

"Be that as it may," Mycroft said loudly. "They _will_ be interested to know all about your new friend..." His eyes slid past him to John, the almost-smirk settling in the corners of his mouth again. "And about all the time you've been spending together."

Sherlock felt a cold trickle run through him. He stared at his brother. He could have driven his fist into that calm, condescending expression. "John, would you wait for me in the hallway?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John jerk his head towards him. "Yeah. Okay," he said reluctantly.

Sherlock waited until the door was closed behind him and then took a furious step towards his brother. "What the hell are you playing at?"

"Such an obedient pet," Mycroft taunted. "You say "get out" and he trips over himself to do as he's told."

It was the first time Mycroft's contempt for John had been truly obvious and it stung Sherlock more than he had expected. Some small, insecure part of him longed to demand just what made John so repugnant. But he already knew the answer to that.

John was human. He wasn't capable of paralysing his emotions like Mycroft; he couldn't smile with such poise and indifference when he was hurt or angry. And he bowed to his basest instincts and desires, in a manner Mycroft never would allow himself to. He thought John was polluting Sherlock, stripping him of his ability to remain unmoved and untouched. Perhaps he really was jealous. Perhaps Mycroft secretly wanted what Sherlock had with John or resented John for giving Sherlock something he couldn't enjoy.

"So this is your way of getting square?" Sherlock said coldly. "You'd think I'd done something really terrible. Like blackmailed my own brother-"

"You brought this on yourself," Mycroft replied, lowering his eyes to the rectangle of newspaper still visible. "With your past, I wouldn't be surprised if they were extremely concerned about this dalliance- be it with a school boy possessing the cunning of a hamster." He paused. "Perhaps even concerned enough to remove you from Redverse."

"And you would tell them?" Sherlock spat. "Because I embarrassed you in front of relatives we don't even like, that we only see once a year?"

"If you won't help yourself, I'll be forced to tell the only people who have ever seemed to possess any sway over you," Mycroft said, speaking in the same manner someone might talk about the weather. "Of course if you did wish to take up my kind offer and accompany me to my esteemed friend's establishment I could be persuaded to conveniently forget the existence of John Watson."

"What's in it for you?" Sherlock said, his body pricking all over with cold anger. "Besides having the pleasure of seeing me suffer the strobe lighting and alcohol doused imbeciles who inhabit nightclubs."

"Your words not mine," Mycroft said coolly, raising his eyebrows at him in a knowing fashion. "I would merely be interested to see John in is his natural habitat."

"John's nothing like them," Sherlock said icily. But inwardly he couldn't help remembering just what event had led to his and John finally coming together.

"You can take the boy out of the clique but you can't take the clique out of the boy," Mycroft said. He looked up with him, eyes glinting. "You must have thought it quite a game to ensnare a feebleminded footballer and see how long you could keep him distracted from all the excitement that being the centre of undeserved attention affords him. I congratulate you on your efforts, but you know just as well as I do that they won't last. He'll fall back into his old ways sooner or later."

Sherlock's curled up right knuckle gave a sharp crack. "For once in your miserable life, just shut the fuck up, Mycroft."

He left his brother, slamming the door much harder than what was necessary on his way out. He never learnt. He never seemed to quite get just how persistent Mycroft was and just how he acted when he was so determined to be right. And he was pissed. He was really damn pissed about what Sherlock and John had done. Sherlock had walked straight into this.

John was waiting for him in the hallway, fidgeting restlessly by the wall. He straightened up abruptly when he saw Sherlock. "Well?"

"Well, we're fucked."

\--

John knew Sherlock was checking out his arse as he added the finishing touches to his hair in the vanity mirror. It was difficult not to bend over a little further than what was necessary and wiggle his hips around just a tiny bit when he knew how closely the taller boy was looking at him.

"Why are you taking so long?" Sherlock barked, breaking into John's foolish thoughts. "One would think you're actually looking forward to this."

John turned to him guiltily, deciding it would be safer to ignore that remark. "How do I look?"

"Like someone whose hair gel has seeped right through to their brain," Sherlock snapped, his eyes wandering down John's torso.

"Why are you taking this so hard?" John said, rolling his eyes. "It's just a club, Sherlock. You drink, you stand around laughing at the poor idiots trying to pick up and you relax. Sometimes it's even fun. It could be worse, don't you think?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said, his lips thinned so aggressively that he could barely get the word out. "The spectacle of watching people drink themselves into a stupor and dry hump each other in public is not an attractive one." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Though it seems exceedingly so to you."

John shrugged, feeling the blood rush into his face. Truth be told, he was looking forward to this. He hadn't been to a party in a long while, hadn't been to a club for even longer. The rush of being allowed in at age sixteen was something akin to a drug high; the sense of being the youngest in a sea of seasoned clubbers was intoxicatingly fun. He could go without it for months, but every so often he craved that smell of men's deodorant and cocktails, the darkness and almost intimacy of it, though there might be a hundred or so people in the building.

"Earth to John," Sherlock said crossly, waving a hand irately in front of his face.

John coughed embarrassedly, hastily rearranging his dreamy expression. "Well, I don't think it's so bad."

Sherlock sighed and leant back on the bed, his legs spread. John decided to take the unspoken invitation and lowered himself onto Sherlock's lap, linking his arms around Sherlock's neck. Despite his aversion to fun, Sherlock had washed his hair and donned a clean shirt. It was made of grey cotton and was very soft against John's fingertips. "Won't you be cold in this?" he remarked, plucking at it.

Sherlock's hands found his waist and wedged him firmer onto his hips. "Not if you stay near me," he mumbled.

John grinned. "How close?"

Sherlock tilted his mouth up towards his. "We'll be ejected for indecent exposure."

John laughed and let him kiss him. Sherlock rocked his hips up into his, his grip tightening on John's waist. His mouth expertly moulded John's against his, tongue lapping at John's bottom lip and teeth grazing against him when he deepened the kiss.

Suddenly he broke away, drawing back to look at John with a shrewd expression. John still felt dazed from the kiss and could hardly take control of his features again half as swiftly as Sherlock. "Be careful tonight," he said, his tone suddenly very serious.

"What?" John said, frowning.

"Don't do anything you might... regret," Sherlock said, almost gently.

John felt an irritated twinge, knowing he was talking about what Sherlock called his "susceptibility to alcohol". "I don't need a chaperone," he said, in a clipped tone.

Sherlock sighed in a manner that told John that he had expected that reaction. Somehow that was even more annoying. "I'm just looking out for you."

John pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip, and stood. "Fine," he said shortly. "But don't think that just because we've had sex, it gives you permission to police me. I'm still perfectly able to take care of myself."

Sherlock watched him for a moment in silence and then shrugged. "I didn't mean anything by it."

John wondered if he had overacted. He coloured and turned back to the mirror to smooth his already creaseless shirt. "Let's just relax and enjoy ourselves. We won't be in London for much longer. Your brother can't do anything to us if we're in a club."

Sherlock gave a cynical "hah".

There was a brief silence. John stared at himself in the mirror. He couldn't remember when his complexion had last looked so healthy or his eyes so free of dark, grey circles. He looked healthier and happier than he had for months- perhaps years. It was all due to Sherlock.

Past him on the bed, Sherlock was staring at him. He looked particularly ravishing tonight. The grey shirt set off his eyes and made them look bigger and darker and more gorgeous than usual. His hair was its usual mess of dark, ramshackle tangles but no one could pull it off quite as flawlessly as Sherlock did.

"We better get going," he said grudgingly, getting to his feet. "Let's get this over with."

"Alright," John said solemnly, trying to curb his obviously too evident enthusiasm.

Apparently it was still too evident, because Sherlock sent him a decidedly dark look. He was at the door when he suddenly felt hands grip his waist and he was thrust against the wall by Sherlock's taller frame.

"Sherlock!" he narrowly avoided squealing.

Sherlock lowered his mouth to his ear, his breath sending convulsive shivers through John's body. "If you ever tease me like that again, you may find yourself unable to walk for a week."

John blinked sheepishly at him. Apparently his subtle wiggling hadn't been subtle enough to escape Sherlock. "I have no idea what you mean."

Sherlock shook his head at him. "Cunning of a hamster indeed."

John frowned confusedly at him as he was tugged out of the room.

\--

Even before they had arrived at the club, Sherlock was in hell. He was crammed in the back of a cab with his brother on one side and his boyfriend on the other, looking more ravishing than ever in a fitted white t-shirt that reminded Sherlock so stridently of the one John had posed for him in on Christmas Day that he was in danger of getting a hard-on purely as a result of this association.

Yes, this was hell. But only the first circle. It could only get worse from here on in. He looked resentfully at his brother, staring so obliviously out of the window. Except Mycroft Holmes was never oblivious and Sherlock knew it.

They pulled up outside the boozy masses gathered around the entrance of a club that Sherlock couldn't even see the name of it was so obscure. The low, ceaseless thump of the music was audible even inside the taxi and made his whole frame pulse.

"Keep the change," Mycroft said, handing over a twenty pound note to the cabbie and stepping out into the cold and noise.

John sent him a brief, taut smile and then also exited out his door. Sherlock had no choice but to follow them. It was icy outside, the night air bit into his skin like a blade. He buried his hands in his pockets, staring around the chattering crowds dubiously.

His brother, in his pinstripe suit and leather gloves, led the way through the crowds. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes. John sidled up closer to him, his sleeve brushing up against his. His teeth were audibly chattering.

"How are you going to get in?" he said in a low voice, staring around at the people staring at them.

Sherlock slid a hand into his pocket and brought out his wallet. He flipped it open to reveal the ID card in the slot usually reserved for a driver's licence. It was, of course, fake. He'd acquired it when he was fifteen from a well-connected youth and had only ever used it once to get into a club, but too many times to count in the name of cigarettes.

"Where the hell did you get that?" John exclaimed, snatching it from him.

"Probably from the same person you got yours," Sherlock said drily, while John squinted closely at it.

John lowered it, smiling sheepishly. He handed it back. "Mine's better. The laminate isn't so cloudy and uneven."

"That's what you get for 50 pounds," Sherlock said, taking it back. "Cloudy, uneven laminate."

He slipped it back into his coat pocket. More than half of him hoped that the bouncer saw straight through their silly, fake IDs and turned them away. But of course the bouncer barely glanced at either of them when they passed them over and certainly not closely enough to notice anything like cloudy, uneven laminate.

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. He was already standing in the doorway, it was dimly lit and very noisy and slightly smoky, despite the strictly "No Smoking" law that banished nicotine to the coldest, creepiest corner of the earth.

Sherlock thinned his lips. They walked past the surly, sallow skinned bouncer and were plunged into almost complete darkness.

"The Crypt," John said directly into his ear, as that was just about the only way he could be heard over the rising swell of music.

"What?" Sherlock said into the impenetrable cacophony.

"The name of the club," John mouthed at him.

They turned the corner out of the dark hall and were violently accosted by the flashing glare of the lighting and the deafening hum of a hundred odd voices. He looked sideways at John. His eyes were glowing. He was truly happy here. Sherlock felt his heart sink.

Mycroft had disappeared. Sherlock couldn't say he gave a damn, but he didn't really want to lose sight of him. An enemy he couldn't see was infinitely more dangerous than an enemy he could.

"Come on," John said, tugging on his sleeve.

Sherlock allowed himself to be guided over to the bar. They elbowed their way through the crowd to where five or six attractive, young bartenders were moving so fast among the various taps and bottles that Sherlock was almost impressed.

"What will you have?" John hollered at him.

Sherlock detested alcohol, but he needed something to repair his frayed nerves and make the night bearable. "Vodka and coke," he told the bartender, who had evidently learnt to read lips because she didn't miss a beat and he had the drink in front of him within two minutes.

John had the same and they fought their way back out of the crowd and towards the only empty table in the joint. It was extremely close to the table next to it, where two sequin clad girls and a man were seated, scanning the crowds like birds of prey.

Sherlock placed himself between them and John. He was more than aware of the glances being thrown their way. He was painfully aware of every lingering look that landed on John. It was inevitable. Sherlock more than understood what people came into clubs to do and it seemed as though more than a few wanted to do it with John and him.

"Where did your brother go?" John shouted into his ear.

"No bloody clue." Sherlock took a deep gulp of his drink. It was sickly sweet.

John sent him a sideways smile and took a sip of his. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could only hope that John hadn't brought more money than what was needed for five drinks at the most. He doubted whether John's small frame could take very much.

"Gentlemen."

Sherlock looked up. Mycroft had returned and he wasn't alone. He was with a man of about thirty, with receding hair and an outfit that was at least five years too young for him. And two sizes too small.

"This is my brother," Mycroft said over the noise.

"Splendid to meet you," the man said, holding out a hand. "I'm Greg."

Sherlock stared at him. He slowly raised a hand to briefly shake his. He usually avoided physical contact with people who used the word "splendid" and wore hipster jeans but he wasn't going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing it get to him. "I take it that this is your establishment."

The man nodded and glanced at John. Mycroft looked at him too. "And this is-"

"John," John interjected, sticking out a hand. The man shook it, smiling again and revealing slightly greying teeth.

"Well, have fun," he said, slapping Mycroft's shoulder. "The drinks are on me, boys. So don't go shelling out any more cash." He nodded at the half-empty glasses on the table.

"How kind," Mycroft said, smiling placidly at him.

Sherlock had to wonder just what dirt Mycroft had on Greg to make him so generous and compliant.

When he was gone, Mycroft took the seat opposite them, casting a look around the table next to him. The girl nearest to Sherlock had been throwing looks at them since they had sat down, shaking her hair back from her face constantly and crossing and uncrossing her legs so often it looked like she had crabs.

John drained his glass, obviously to avoid looking at Mycroft. Mycroft was certainly looking at John. It was almost as though he was sizing him up, seeing just how much booze it would take to send him over the edge. Not much. Sherlock knew that much.

"Another, John?" Mycroft said, nodding to his empty glass.

John looked up quickly. He glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock stayed silent.

"Just mention my name at the bar and I'm sure they'll make sure you're well looked after," Mycroft said, when John didn't reply. "I'll be back in a moment. I promised Greg I'd make the acquaintance of his investors."

Neither John, nor Sherlock replied. When he was gone, Sherlock glanced at John. "You're going to be sensible tonight, aren't you?" He knew he sounded patronizing and that his interference would only irritate John but he couldn't help it.

"I've had one drink, Sherlock," John said irritably. "Would you get off my case?"

"You know alcohol makes you act like an idiot," Sherlock snapped, knowing he was taking a cheap shot. "If you remember, I've had experience with you when you're off your face."

John narrowed his eyes at him and didn't reply.

"Excuse me."

They both jerked at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.

Sherlock stared at the woman sitting down opposite them. She had been seated beside him just moments ago, he hadn't been noticed her moving. From what he could see of her through the poor lighting, she was a brunette with a rather liberal amount of cleavage and makeup.

"Is your name really _Sherlock_?" she said, leaning forward and treating them to an eyeful of her chest. "That's so unusual."

Sherlock could almost feel his skin crawling. He had nothing against pretty women, as long as they didn't make passes at him. His lips thinned. Or John.

"And you? What's your name?" she said to John, clearly not put off by their stunned silence.

Sherlock wondered what she would do if he told her she was hitting on two sixteen-year-olds.

He was exceedingly pleased to see John's alarmed expression, though he quickly collected himself and flashed her a smile that Sherlock wanted to claw off his face. "John."

"Oh!" She gave a trilling laugh. "That's not quite so exotic, is it? Mine's Jillian, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," John said, speaking for both of them. "Ah," he looked sideways at Sherlock. "Can I get you a drink?"

Sherlock didn't look at him. There was no way he was giving him the satisfaction.

"That would be great," "Jillian" said sweetly. She was spilling eyelashes and boobs all over their table and Sherlock just wanted her to get the hell away from him.

John disappeared with her. Sherlock sat very still in his seat, staring straight ahead. He was not jealous. He was not angry. Because John liked boys. He liked _boys_. It didn't matter that the girl was pretty and had boobs the size of beach balls and was leaning down to whisper something in his ear and he had put his hand on her back-

"Fuck," Sherlock snarled, looking away. "Bastard."

He shouldn't have said what he'd said. He knew it was an episode that John was extremely embarrassed about. But he had known this was going to happen and he felt powerless to stop it.

The table next to him was empty now. He had no idea where the girl's friends had gone but he wished they'd come back and claim her. He drained the rest of his drink and cast a look over at the bar. John had disappeared amongst the crowd.

Twenty minutes later, neither of them had returned and neither had Mycroft. Sherlock felt like throwing something at someone and he would have settled for his empty glass and someone's head.

"Fucking tool," he growled, pouring another piece of ice into his mouth and angrily crunching it into pieces.

John finally reappeared moments later, but he wasn't with Jillian. And he had clearly been drinking in earnest. His face was flushed, his eyes a little too bright and his features strangely dazed. He was wobbling slightly when he walked. Sherlock lividly shook his head.

There was a man of about twenty-three next to him. He was at least a foot taller than John and his hand was resting on John's shoulder.

Sherlock stood up, before he could stop himself. "What the hell is going on?" he spat.

"Sherlock!" John yelped, as he was yanked out of the man's grip. "What the hell are you d-doing-"

"This is my boyfriend," Sherlock snarled into the face of the mystery man.

The man's eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. "Sherlock, is it?"

"This is Leon," John said, flushing with anger and embarrassment. "He's the co-owner of the club."

Sherlock glared at him. That explained nothing. Like why his arm had been around John's _shoulders._ "Where's Mycroft?" he spat.

"He's at the bar. I'm sure he'll be coming over soon," Leon said, smiling wanly at Sherlock, as though this was exactly the sort of reception he had expected. "Nice to meet you, John. It was good talking to you."

"Thanks," John said, in little more than a mortified whisper.

Leon nodded briefly to them and disappeared. John whirled to Sherlock and almost completely lost his balance. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"You stupid drunk," Sherlock said under his breath, turning on his heel.

He was too furious to care how nasty, how unwarranted the comment was. He wanted to slap John. He was doing everything Mycroft knew he would. Stupid, fickle, naive idiot.

When he looked back, John was gone. Sherlock sat down again, convincing himself he didn't give a fuck. Mycroft slid into the seat next to him. Sherlock didn't think this night could get any worse.

"Where's John?" he said as soon as he sat down, placing a glass of something in front of him and another in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock picked it up and took a sip. "Screw it," he said in a low voice, placing it down again.

Mycroft sent him an amused look. "I'm sorry it had to come to this." He sounded anything but.

"Go and fuck yourself," Sherlock said blandly, not caring whether he heard him over the ruckus or not.

He scanned the crowd for John. As pissed off as he was, he felt more than slightly concerned that a drunk John had suddenly disappeared into a crowd of people considerably older than him. If he was completely honest, he would say that he was scared shitless. And when the anger began to leak away, the scared shitlessness only increased.

He stood up. "I have to find him."

Mycroft looked at him. "You won't have to look very far."

Sherlock followed his gaze to the dance floor opposite. Sherlock immediately recognised John's small figure. He was dancing close to another boy. Or more accurately he was swaying close to another boy. He kept staggering every so often and almost tumbling off his feet and the taller boy would touch his hips to steady him, laughing as he did. Their bodies weren't touching, but they were so damn close. The boy's face was craned down towards John's.

He didn't look at Mycroft. He didn't want to see his expression. He couldn't stand seeing the satisfaction or contempt or disdain there. Or worst of all, the pity.

Sherlock stood up; he felt his hip connect with the table and heard his drink roll off onto the tiled floor with an explosion of glass.

"Sherlock!" he heard Mycroft shout after him through the pulsing bass of the music.

He was barely aware of reaching John. People stared as he forced his way between them. He forced himself between John and the boy and gave him a far too rough shove.

He stumbled backwards and collided with the person behind him, eyes wide and struggling to keep his balance. "What the fuck!"

"What the hell are you doing?" John shouted, trying to pull him away.

Sherlock didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the boy whose hands had been on John's body, whose lips had almost been touching his. Sherlock should have ripped them off his face. "Touch him again and I'll kill you," he spat.

He sounded insane. He was perfectly aware of that. He was also aware of the way John was watching him. Like he was about to hurt someone. Or him.

"Who the hell are you?" the boy screamed at him over the music. "What the fuck is this?"

Sherlock yanked John from the crowd by his arm. John didn't struggle. It wasn't until they reached the table that he wrenched himself out of Sherlock's grip and gave him a sharp shove away from him.

"You're such a prick!"

Mycroft watched them silently from the table. He was enjoying every moment of this. It would have been better than pornography to him, watching Sherlock's relationship with John burn to the ground like a house doused in petrol.

"You're drunk," Sherlock spat, as John gave a telltale wobble on his feet.

He was struggling to even focus on Sherlock's face. "So fucking _what_?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Just leave, John. You're embarrassing yourself." He took his wallet from his pocket. "Get a cab and go home."

When he looked up, John was striding towards the doors, stumbling on the stairs and almost losing his balance more than once.

"God damn it."

He felt a hand on his arm and jerked to see Mycroft standing. "I'll go after him. Calm down. Take a deep breath and then come out. You don't want to say anything else that you'll regret."

Sherlock nodded in spite of himself. If he ran after John, John would just run faster. He'd be safe with Mycroft, if nothing else. "Fine," he said tersely, sitting down and resting his head in his hands.

\--

John was drunk. He knew it. He was aware of it. Unfortunately his body could not comply with what his mind wanted it to do any longer and all thoughts of returning to the club and settling things like a mature adult were lost amongst the white noise that too much booze encased his brain in.

There weren't many people outside now, just a small clump of people standing to one side smoking and a long line of taxis along the curb.

John walked unsteadily over to the smokers. The smell stung his nostrils and inevitably made him think of Sherlock. He'd never seen Sherlock so angry. More than once he had thought he was about to hit him.

"You want a smoke, honey?" said a heavily painted woman to the left of him, holding out an open packet to him.

John shook his head wordlessly, shivering slightly against the wall. She sent him a searching look and turned back to her friends. John stayed close to the wall. He was stranded now. He couldn't go back in without attracting too much attention from the bouncers. And he had no idea what he'd say to Sherlock once he got inside.

"John?"

He looked up. "Mycroft." He attempted a smile, when he felt increasingly like crying.

Mycroft cocked his head to one side. "Are you alright?"

"F-fine," John said, the word trembling when he said it.

Mycroft smiled in an almost understanding manner. John thought how stupid he had been to misjudge Mycroft. Steady, impassionate Mycroft. He would never hit John because he happened to flirt a little with some boy.

"Sherlock can be rash," Mycroft said, casting a look at the smoking group beside them. "He can be so jealous and overprotective."

"I shouldn't have-" John began.

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. You need to make your own decisions. Sherlock doesn't own you."

John looked away. No, Sherlock did own him. Not like a toy or a possession. He wasn't one of Sherlock's things, but they did own each other. They were connected. They possessed each other like every person possessed a brain- or a soul.

John took a step back and found himself back to back with the wall. He could feel the damp, cold brick through his clothes. "You've always hated us... us being t-together," he ventured to say. If he hadn't been pissed, he never would have had the guts to say it.

Mycroft looked steadily at him. "No. I've always found it interesting."

"Why?" John said, conscious of the increasing slur to his voice. He tried to concentrate every muscle on being sober.

"Because he's so..." Mycroft said. He squinted thoughtfully. "And you're so..."

"Stupid?" John said dully.

Mycroft gave a low laugh. "Far from it. I think you're very clever to have charmed my brother. It takes more than a pretty face for him to be ensnared, trust me."

If John had been in a better state of mind, he might have questioned to use of the words "charmed" and "ensnared" but in his current state he considered it a great compliment. If he had been in a better state of mind he might also have realised just how close Mycroft was to him before it was too late.

"Mycroft," he said uncertainly, touching the wall behind him.

There was a hand on his chin; cold, smooth fingers were curling around his jaw, urging him forward, upward. Mycroft's knee was suddenly between his legs; his hand was pinned against his back. His eyes fluttered in confused alarm.

"Sto-"

The word was silenced by Mycroft's mouth suddenly forcing itself roughly against his. His eyes widened. He put his hands against Mycroft's chest. The shock felt like it had paralysed him. His hands were obeying his command to push him away.

The next moment, there was a cry from somewhere beside him and cold air whipped painfully against his face as Mycroft's warm form- warm mouth was suddenly torn from his.

He stared dazedly ahead, trying to focus, trying to stop the world from spinning. His eyes landed confusedly on Mycroft's figure in front of him.

Sherlock's hand was wrapped around the collar of his brother's expensive suit, so tightly that he was in danger of tearing it right off. John realised too late what was about to happen. Sherlock's fist came into contact with Mycroft's face and there was an explosion of blood. It was dripping everywhere, all over his mouth, all over his nose. It was everywhere.

"Sherlock!" John cried out.

Mycroft stumbled backwards, gripping at his nose with one hand. He looked astoundingly calm for someone who had just been punched in the face. Sherlock was staring at him with such hatred, such bile that John felt a twinge of fear for himself.

But Sherlock didn't even look at him. People were catcalling and laughing from around them. The woman who had offered him a cigarette was openly grinning.

"Never fucking talk to me again," Sherlock said in a terrible voice to his brother.

He took John's arm so tightly it felt like there'd be bruises in the morning.

Somewhere amongst the confusion and chaos John found himself being pushed into the back of a taxi. He stared out of the window. Mycroft was dabbing at his nose with a piece of tissue. Then they were pulling away and the club and the smokers and Mycroft were gone.

John felt his eyes begin to water. He turned to Sherlock. He was staring forcibly out of the window, his features like ice. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock shook his head wordlessly and didn't look around.

\--

Sherlock didn't know what time Mycroft got home. He didn't hear him get in. He had sat in the window seat in the guest room all night, sometimes dozing off but for never longer than minutes at a time. Whenever his head lolled to the side, he would awaken with the sight of John curled on his side on the bed.

He didn't think. He didn't dare let himself think. The pain lingering just below the surface was too near, too intense for him to even try and conjure the events in his mind.

At about six in the morning, he jolted awake from another of his momentary lulls of exhaustion. He stared across at John. He had turned over onto his back at some time in the night. He was still dressed in the clothes he'd gone out in; he was still wearing his shoes. He was almost exactly how Sherlock had left him some six hours beforehand.

Sherlock watched his chest gently rise and fall. His mouth was slightly ajar and he was a little pale from the cold. Sherlock had purposely left the blankets off. He didn't want him to be too comfortable after all.

He sat there for what could have been a minute, or an hour. Time didn't seem to mean much. When John began to stir, he turned away. He didn't want to see John waking up, hung over and confused. He didn't want to see those eyes, which could so easily break his defences.

"Sherlock?" his voice sounded very small.

Sherlock didn't turn and didn't reply. He stared hard at a smudge on the window.

"Sherlock," John said again. He heard a rustle as John sat up. There was a moan, as the weight of his hangover evidently hit him. "God, my head."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't know if he could take what he knew was about to happen. Things always had a way of screwing him over.

"I don't know what to say," John said, his voice thick with tiredness and nausea. "I know... I know I acted really... Really badly-" He faltered. "I never meant to- I was just so drunk."

Sherlock turned to him so quickly that he saw John recoil against the pillows. "Don't you ever, _ever_ use that excuse with me again."

John stared at him, his face alarmingly white and barely able to keep his head upright. "I'm sorry-"

"When we first got together," Sherlock said, his voice shuddering with the effort not to scream at him, "you told me that if I ever hurt you, you would leave me."

John looked away, a tear tumbling down his cheek. He didn't speak.

"And you... you go..." Sherlock's voice shook almost uncontrollably. "You go and mess around with my _brother!_ " He all but roared the last word at him. His voice echoed around the room.

"I'm sorry," John said, in barely more than a whisper.

"Sometimes I think that maybe you're everything he says you are," Sherlock spat, the rage pumping through him so intensely it made him feel physically ill. "Maybe you're just too naive, too _stupid_ to understand anyone but yourself. Maybe you're just like your friends. Just another ignorant, selfish, self-absorbed prat."

"I'm nothing like them," John said softly. "I'm not."

"I thought you were so different to them," Sherlock said. A throb of pain forced itself through the anger. Sherlock wanted to thrust it away. He wanted to feel enraged, he wanted to be eaten up with anger. It made it easier to ignore the agony that was being barely contained inside of him. He took a shuddery breath. "I thought you were so much better than them."

"I made a mistake," John sobbed into his hand pressed against his face. "A stupid mistake. I'm a fucking idiot. I love you so much."

Sherlock swallowed with trouble. His throat was so dry. He was almost panting with the exertion of his anger. "Congratulations," he said in a frayed voice. "If you had intended to hurt me in the worst manner possible you have succeeded."

John looked up at him. His eyes were red and raw. He still looked perfect. Sherlock would still have given anything to have him in his arms, to have woken up with him next to him. He hated himself for being so weak for John. "Please don't leave me," John said hoarsely, his hands shaking. "Please."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. "Who said anything about leaving?" He bent down and snatched one of John's fallen cardigans from the floor. He tossed it at him. "Get up. Get dressed. We're both leaving."

John stared at him, partly in confusion and partly in disbelief. "What?"

"We're going to visit your parents," Sherlock said, wrenching John's suitcase out from under the bed and throwing it open. "I think they will be very interested to find out where you've been all this time, don't you?"

"No... Sherlock, please," John said, sitting upright with difficulty and clutching his head. "Please, don't. I can't."

"You can either come with me, or I'll leave you here," Sherlock said, straightening up. "Seeing as you and Mycroft are getting on so well."

John flushed. "Fine."

Sherlock oversaw John's packing and then went to pack his own things. He hadn't removed very many of his belongings from his school suitcase so it didn't take long. John was clearly in considerable discomfort. He disappeared once to bathroom and Sherlock overheard him retching into the toilet.

He felt a pang of concern. He was on the verge of going to him, and then he reminded himself that John had done this to himself. Had done everything to himself. He would have to suffer a bit longer for Sherlock to forget what he had done the evening before. If he could ever get the image of his brother pressed up against John-

He gave himself a violent shake. He couldn't visualize it. It made him want to scream and break things. Namely, every bone in his brother's body.

He was more than aware that his brother was more than partly responsible. He had wanted to break them up. He had wanted John to make an idiot of himself in front of Sherlock. He had succeeded in making John look stupid and do some incredibly stupid things, he had not succeeded in making Sherlock think that John had a single malicious bone in his entire body. He had been manipulated. And yes he had been drunk. A pathetic excuse that Sherlock loathed but a drunken John had no chance against his brother at his most cunning and alert.

"Ready?" he said, standing in the doorway of the guest room and casting a look around inside.

John was knelt by the bed, the suitcase zipped and closed and none of his belongings scattered around like they had been just minutes before. John silently nodded at him, getting slowly and gingerly to his feet. He looked vaguely green. Sherlock hoped he didn't throw up again before they got outside.

He wordlessly walked forward and took John's suitcase. John looked quickly at him. "Well, come on," Sherlock said gruffly. If John dared mention this very small act of mercy on his part, he would have no qualms in hitting him.

In the hallway, Sherlock stopped and lowered the suitcases to the floor. John looked quickly at him. He had been clearly dreading a confrontation with Mycroft. The temptation to punish John by forcing him to come face to face with Mycroft in the cold, harsh light of dawn was extremely high but his desire to get out of there as quickly as possible overrode that temptation.

He went into the drawing room alone. He found his brother sitting by the window, his leather-bound diary spread open on his lap and a cup of tea on the windowsill beside him. The remnants of Sherlock's attack were obvious on his face; his lip was swollen and there was bruising around his nose.

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said, glancing very briefly at him.

"John and I are leaving. We're staying with his parents in Southampton," Sherlock said, staring dispassionately at him. "I've left the address and number on the fridge, if mother or father happen to want to know." He thoroughly doubted whether they would.

He turned on his heel to leave.

"I'm sorry that we can't leave on more amicable terms," Mycroft said calmly. "But I think that one day you will understand why I did what I did."

Sherlock paused in the doorway. He opened his mouth to retort and then closed it. There was no point. He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

John followed him silently out to the taxi. Sherlock's only consolation was that he had spent a small fortune of his parents' money on transport that holiday season. It was very small mercies but it was better than nothing.

John, to his credit, bore his hangover well for the first twenty minutes of the car ride. It was obvious that he was suffering; his head was rested against the window. He looked desperately pale and his forehead was damp with perspiration.

Sherlock felt sorry for him. He tried to suppress it, but the anger that had been so intense when he had faced John that morning had leaked away to a faint twinge. That was how John's head ended up in his lap halfway through the journey and how his hand found its way into his hair soon after.

Every so often John released a piteous moan into his legs. Sherlock gently stroked his scalp. "This doesn't mean I've forgotten about last night," he said in a low voice, when he sensed John was close to dropping off to sleep on his lap.

"I know," John mumbled.

"I just know how low your threshold for discomfort is," he said quietly, trying not to smile.

They were about half an hour from Southampton when John suddenly sat up, looking extremely pale. "Sick-"

Was all he had to articulate before Sherlock understood him. "Pull over to that petrol station," he said sharply to the cabbie.

They drove into the parking lot and John tumbled out of the cab, almost sprinting towards the bathroom just outside the station. Sherlock wanted to follow him but he didn't want to leave the cab and risk them getting left behind in the middle of nowhere.

John reappeared moments later, looking ruffled and incredibly rough. When he slid into the back of the cab he smelt faintly of vomit and urinal cakes. Sherlock had to fight the urge to grin.

"Stop smirking at me," John groaned, resting his head in his hands. "I'm suffering here."

"Good," Sherlock said, though he let him lay his head back in his lap.

"How do you even know where I live?" John grumbled.

"It's called the White Pages."

When they were close to Portswood, John sat up with some difficulty. He stared out of the window, looking like a boy awaiting his doom. Sherlock could see him getting tenser and more fidgety the closer they got to his home. His hangover seemed to worsen with every street they passed.

They pulled up to a yellowy terrace house with a neat but sparse front garden and a flaking white gate. It was a little in need of repairs and repainting but Sherlock liked it. It reminded him of John. It was pretty and unassuming, though that may not have been the most flattering of comparisons to John.

They sat there in silence and neither of them moved. John seemed almost unable to move, he had gone rigid in his seat. Sherlock gently touched his leg. "Are you alright?"

John shook his head very slightly. "No."

"You'll be ok," Sherlock said quietly. "I'll be there with you."

John jerked his head again but didn't reply. His hands were curled into two fists on his lap and his knuckles were white.

"Wait here a moment," Sherlock told the driver and he got out.

John got out of the other door, keeping his eyes down. He followed Sherlock through the gate and up the path to the door. There was a brass knocker on the door and a doorbell. When Sherlock pressed it, it played London Bridge Is Falling Down in a slightly distorted, out-of-tune manner for a couple of verses.

Almost immediately there were footsteps from inside. Sherlock heard John take a step back behind him on the gravel path. The door opened slowly on its hinges, emitting a low creak. A woman with bleached blonde hair and peach coloured lipstick stared out at him; she was wearing a faded, floral dressing gown.

"Yes?" she said uncertainly.

She looked past him to John and her eyes immediately widened.

"John! Oh my goodness!"

Sherlock edged to one side and looked behind him. John was leaning heavily on the wall that separated the house from the one next to it.

"Mum," he said weakly.

He curled over the wall and threw up violently into the next-door neighbour's wilted acacia bush.

_ End of Chapter Eighteen _


	19. Chapter 19

John didn't know what Sherlock told his mother about his mysterious illness but in a blur of minutes he found himself sprawled on his back on his bed with the curtains drawn and a damp flannel on his forehead. He could hear Sherlock and his mother speaking in low voices just outside the door. Sherlock was clearly weaving some elaborate story about John's being stricken down by food poisoning or a sudden, violent allergic reaction to acacia.

The nausea felt like it had passed but John didn't want to tempt fate by trying to sit up. There was really nothing he wanted more than to be alone and free of his mother's questions for at least an hour.

He listened to their footsteps fade away downstairs and then peeled the flannel off and turned carefully onto his side, conscious of every jolt to his stomach. Someone had put his suitcase by his wardrobe. He was almost certain that in their haste to leave London at least one of his belongings had been left behind at the Holmes residence, but until he became aware of just what it was he didn't care.

Despite the events of that morning and the night before, he couldn't help but feel a grateful twinge for Sherlock's quick thinking. No doubt he'd be able to keep his mother off his case for a little while and might even be able to slow his father's approach when he caught wind of his son's impromptu return.

John groaned into the familiar sheets. They had the same clean, soft smell they had had three months ago. It should have been comforting but it just brought back painful memories.

He screwed his eyes up tight. He didn't want to think until his head had stopped throbbing.

Twenty minutes later, he heard soft footsteps in the hallway and knew it was Sherlock. He considered pretending to be asleep but he knew Sherlock would see through it in a second. He gingerly rolled onto his back, still feeling too tender to sit up.

"John?" The door creaked quietly on its hinges.

John grunted. He didn't know if he was in the mood to be impeached. He knew he had hurt him; he didn't need to be told. And he certainly knew he had screwed up, but when the haze of self-hatred and guilt subsided there was a twinge of resentment left behind. He hadn't asked for any of this.

He felt his mattress depress and give a low groan as Sherlock sat down beside him. A hand touched his thigh. "Are you awake?"

John got the feeling he was only asking to give him the option of pretending to be asleep if he wanted to. John sighed and opened his eyes. "I'm awake."

Sherlock was watching him unsmilingly. "Your mother's going to bring you up some tea." He hesitated, his eyes searching his face. "She's going to call your father too. He'll probably be back soon."

"Huh," John replied. "Well, it was nice knowing you."

Sherlock looked away. "Look, I won't force you to do anything you don't want to. God knows how that shit can mess you up." He laughed bitterly. "I would know."

John stared at him. "Really?"

Sherlock sighed, and stood up. He still didn't look at him. "I don't have any right to force you. I was just... just-"

He broke off with a half-shrug. John turned his face away to the wall. He was too sick for this crap.

"I know you didn't mean to... to..." Sherlock didn't seem to be able to bring himself to say the words.

"Kiss your brother?" John supplied dully.

"Did you?" Sherlock said, his voice oddly frayed.

"He kissed me," John said quietly, focusing hard on a poster close to the bed.

There was silence. He wondered what Sherlock would say to that. He could claim it didn't matter, that if John had been sober it wouldn't have happened. John didn't know how they could ever get past this if Sherlock always privately thought that he wanted to fuck his brother.

"Sweetie?"

He jerked at the sound of his mother's voice and rolled back onto his back. She had changed out of her floral nightdress and into a pair of faded jeans and a lace top that was fraying at the collar.

She placed a chipped Southampton FC mug on the table beside him and plucked the fallen damp flannel from the mattress and gently placed it on his forehead again. "Are you alright, Johnny?"

John coloured but Sherlock made no motion that he had even heard her. "Fine," he said, struggling to smile at her.

"I'm so glad you came home, sweetie," she said fondly, stroking back his fringe from his face. Her acrylic nails scratched his skin. "We missed you so much."

"Has Harriet been home?" John asked.

"She was here for Christmas," his mother said, looking closely at him. "But I'm sure if we called her, she'd come over to see you."

John was a little embarrassed that Sherlock was witnessing his mother treating him like he was ten, but he was nonetheless relieved to see her. She looked better than he could have expected. Tired and ashen but not unhealthy.

She stood up and turned to Sherlock with a smile, which John supposed was a good sign given Sherlock's usual habit of alienating or insulting everyone who he came in contact with.

"I can get you some breakfast if you'd like, dear," she said to him. "Something better than that petrol station crap. Honestly, John." She glanced at him reproachfully. "I thought you'd know better than that. I'm not surprised it made you throw up."

John smiled weakly at her. "Yeah... it was stupid."

"That sounds lovely, Mrs. Watson," Sherlock said, with a charming smile that John marvelled at. "I'll just bring my bags up first if that's alright."

"Not a problem!" she said, waving a hand. "I can take the mattress off Harriet's bed and you can sleep in here if you'd like. John won't mind, we can shift that chair out of the way. There will be plenty of room."

"You're too kind," Sherlock said smoothly, while John flushed in embarrassment on the bed.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, as soon as she was gone.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly at him. "Making sure your mother doesn't realise your mysterious illness wasn't caused by a servo pie?"

"Do you really think it's such a great idea for us to be sleeping in the same room?" John said, glowering at him.

Sherlock smirked. "Don't think you'll be able to keep your hands off me?"

"Look," John said coldly. "You said you didn't want to force me into anything so don't. Don't give my parents any reason to suspect me might be... might be-"

"Fucking?" Sherlock supplied archly.

John glared at him. "Don't be an arsehole," he said, feeling the nausea beginning to return.

"Don't you think it would be weirder if we didn't want to sleep in the same room than if we did?" Sherlock said, folding his arms. "Like we have something to hide?"

John gnawed on his bottom lip. He didn't want his parents to notice the slightest oddity in his and Sherlock's relationship. When he'd had friends to sleep over in his youth they had always slept in the same room. Hell, sometimes they had slept in the same bed, depending on how exhausted they were the night before. But that had been before the... stirrings began. Everything seemed much less clear-cut now.

"Fine," John said, turning his head back to the wall. "Whatever you want."

Sherlock didn't reply. Soon after, he heard him leave and close the door behind him.

\--

Sherlock found John's mother in the kitchen. She didn't seem like the kind of woman who did a lot of cooking and that assumption was proved right when she served him shaker pancakes. He sat at the wooden bench with her, glancing at the fridge, which was plastered in plastic magnets holding up dozens of photos of John in his football uniform at various ages. There was also a girl with cropped hair in a few of them, who he assumed was John's sister.

Sherlock dreaded having to answer John's mother's questions. Because there would be questions. Question after question about how John was doing at school, who were John's friends, what were the teachers like, how did he know John, did he like school, what did his parents do for a living. It wouldn't end until her husband got home and then he'd have to put up with all of his questions, except those would be considerably more forceful, going by what Sherlock had seen of him at John's final game.

"So," she said, sitting down opposite him and placing a very old mug with a picture of Garfield on it in front of him. "Are you one of John's good friends?"

"You could say that," Sherlock said, lifting the mug to his lips and taking an obligatory sip. It was very weak.

"Funny," she said, squinting at him across the table. "He never mentioned you. I would remember a name like...Sherlock." She said it like it left a strange taste in her mouth. Sherlock was too used to that reaction to be offended.

"Does John often mention his friends?" Sherlock asked, accepting the plate of pancakes she handed him.

She nudged a bottle of Maple flavoured syrup in a plastic bottle shaped like a Maple leaf. Or he supposed that's what the manufacturer had been aiming for. "Oh, he mentions Marty or Billy sometimes. Well, when he's home," she said in a mournful tone.

Sherlock stuck a hunk of pancake in his mouth and chewed it slowly. He did not want to be privy to John's mother's grievances.

"So all this time he's been in London with you?" she said, seeming a little doubtful. "That boy. You'd think we lock him in the cellar, he's so damned determined not to spend any time with his family."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Huh. I guess he just wanted to see London."

She peered owlishly at him. "I suppose he tells you things, does he?"

Sherlock shovelled another piece of pancake into his mouth. He so did not want to have this conversation with her. "Not really," he said through a mouthful of syrup.

"He's not having troubles at school, is he?" she said, she picked up a paper napkin from a green wire stand on the bench and began passing it from hand to hand. She had what looked like a plastic extension on each of her nails, square and decorated with pink flowers. "He's never lost a game in his life. It's just so unlike him."

"He's under a lot of pressure," Sherlock said carefully, while she shredded up the napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. "I mean it's his last year at school."

She opened her mouth and then slowly closed it. She looked away with a small shake of her head. Sherlock watched her in silence. He didn't know what he had expected John's mother to be like, but Mrs Watson wasn't it. He could see who John had inherited the majority of his looks from. The blue eyes, sandy complexion, small upturned nose were all hers.

Sherlock couldn't help thinking there was something sad and faded about her. Like someone who had all the life squeezed out of them, a flower that had been crushed of all its pollen, its colour and its scent.

"My Johnny tries hard," she said at length, staring hard into her cup. "He's clever. I know it. He just seems to have so much trouble with some of his subjects. His teachers all tell me its "lack of application", that if he put more effort in he'd get better grades. But I've never known a boy to work so hard and gain so little!" She shook her head again with a frustrated sigh.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Maybe..." He hesitated. This really wasn't his place to say. He had promised himself he wouldn't meddle. But... "Maybe balancing football and school work is a bit too much for him."

"He said that?" John's mother seemed almost shocked at the suggestion.

Sherlock shrugged, hoping in vain that she'd just leave it at that. Though he very much doubted it.

"He said that to you?" she said again, in an almost eager tone.

"Not exactly," Sherlock said.

She watched him in silence. Her kohl lined eyes moved slowly over his face. Sherlock looked back at her, silently wishing he had just kept his mouth shut.

"Well, you might as well take some of these upstairs," she said finally, spearing three pancakes and dropping them onto an empty plate. "He might feel like putting something in his stomach."

Sherlock doubted it but he took it anyway. "Thanks, I'll take it up."

"It's nice that John has a good friend to rely on," she said, as he was at the door.

He turned to look at her, the plate of pancakes precariously held between his finger and thumb.

"I always feel safer knowing he's got someone looking out for him." She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. Sherlock could only jerk his mouth upwards slightly in response.

When he reached John's room, he found him fast asleep on his back. Or he appeared to be fast asleep. It was difficult to tell in the gloom. The curtains had been pulled across. They were patterned with miniature soccer balls. Sherlock shook his head to himself and pushed the plate onto John's desk.

He spun the desk chair around and sat down. He could remember a time when he would have killed to be inside John Watson's bedroom and now he was here. It was not quite the material of erotic wet dreams once he was actually inside. The walls were littered with posters of soccer teams and various bands Sherlock had never heard of. And some he had. He could make out The Rolling Stones, The Beatles and The Kinks. There was also a single, very battered poster of a voluptuous, bikini-clad woman hanging limply off his wardrobe door.

Sherlock got up and walked over to have a closer look. It was very old, the blue-tac had bled right through the paper. Sherlock smoothed it down with his fingertips with a soft: "Hah."

Distantly he heard the front door below them noisily open, slamming against the wall with impressive force. John gave a groan behind him and he turned to find him struggling upright, looking vaguely windswept. "Fuck. My dad's home."

"You're a very light sleeper," Sherlock remarked.

John was combing his unwashed hair with his fingers and didn't reply. "I look like crap. He'll know it wasn't shitty food that made me sick. He's not as gullible as mum." It was almost like he was just talking to himself. "He doesn't even  _want_  to believe me half the time."

"You don't say," Sherlock said flatly, not appreciating being ignored. "She made you pancakes by the way."

John didn't seem to hear him. He stumbled off the bed and hastily gathered up his fallen shoes and cardigan from the floor and yanking his curtains open, all the while chanting: "Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God" under his breath.

"Will you calm down?" Sherlock said irritably. "If you freak out, he'll know you have something to hide."

"Don't talk to me about being calm!" John said, a touch of hysteria coming into his voice. He whirled around to face him. "Oh fuck. I can hear him. Oh  _fuck_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't comment. He could the footsteps too. Moments later the door swang open with the same vigour as the front door sounded to have and all five foot and seven inches of Mr. Watson was revealed, dressed in a grey suit and red velvet tie. His blonde hair was combed sternly to one side. His eyes genuinely seemed to brighten when he saw his son.

He marched over and dragged him into a vigorous one-armed hug that made John initially flinch. "John! Good to see you, son. Good to see you."

"Hi, dad," John said awkwardly, grimacing at Sherlock over his shoulder.

Mr. Watson took a step back, glancing at Sherlock. "Oh, hi there..." He paused.

"Sherlock," Sherlock supplied.

"Oh yes," Mr. Watson said slowly, scratching his chin. "Sherlock. Surprised I didn't remember that one." He gave a forceful chuckle.

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Mr. Watson slapped John's shoulder with another chuckle. "Well, why don't you and your friend get cleaned up and we can all have a little talk downstairs?"

It didn't sound like a request. John glanced at Sherlock and then back at his father. "Yeah, dad. That'd be great," he said.

"You staying, Sherlock?" he said to Sherlock on his way out. "We've got a spare room if you need it. Wouldn't want you spending all that dough getting back into the city."

Sherlock got the distinct impression that Mr. Watson didn't want him in the house. "Thank you," he said shortly.

Mr. Watson watched him in silence for a few moments and then glanced at his son with a brief smile and left. As soon as he was safely downstairs, John gave a guttural groan, burying his face in his hands. "Fuck."

"Don't get hysterical," Sherlock said. "You have no idea what he's going to say to us."

"He's going to want to know why the hell I've been at your house all Christmas!" John said shrilly, pacing up and down the room like a trapped animal. "He's going to want to know why I smell like a fucking barnyard. He's going to want to know why the fuck I'm bringing some boy he's only met once home!"

Sherlock stepped in front of him and took him forcefully by the arms. "Look, stop acting like he knows. He doesn't _know_  for God's sake."

John stared at him in a mixture of panic and distrust. "Why would he want to talk to me?"

"For exactly the reason you said, he wants to know where you've been," Sherlock replied steadily. "Just tell him anything but the truth and you'll be fine."

John smiled very briefly and pried Sherlock's hands off of him. "I better have a shower."

\--

John shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. His father was seated opposite in an easy chair with wooden armrests that he always read his paper in. His mother was perched on an armchair next to him, her legs tucked underneath her and her hands folded in her lap. She had barely spoken since her husband had walked in. Something that was certainly not lost on John.

Sherlock was next to him on the sofa. Even though John had a suspicion they might be fighting, he was still glad to have him there.

"I have to admit, John," his father said, preoccupied with unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. "We didn't exactly expect you home so late in the holidays- and with a guest."

John licked his lips. "Yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be home this late either."

"You could have called, John. Would have given us a little time to get organized," his father went on, as though he hadn't spoken. "I'm not even certain that going to London was exactly the most sensible of decisions in the first place! I mean, what have you been getting up to all this time? You go back to school in two days time. What exactly have you been doing to prepare? Have you even seen a football since the holidays began?"

"Dear," his mother tried to interject.

His father lifted up a hand to silence her. "Don't argue with me, Angela."

His mother immediately sunk back in her chair.

"I don't think you quite realise just how important this last term is," his father said, finally looking at him with a hard expression. "I don't think you quite know just how close you are to losing everything we- you've worked for."

John frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

His father eyed him closely. "I just hope you have your priorities in order," he said in an evasive manner. "Don't stumble on the last hurdle."

"Excuse me."

Everyone seemed to jump at the sound of Sherlock's quiet voice. John slowly looked at him, silently begging him not to make matters worse.

"Sherlock?" his father said, eyebrows furrowed. "Do you have something to add?" John was strongly reminded of Principal Harvey.

"Don't you think John should be focusing on his grades?" he said, not looking at John. "Final exams will be coming up soon, not to mention assignments."

John inwardly cringed and looked quickly at his father.

"There's always a backdoor into university courses," he replied, watching Sherlock with a distinctly distrustful expression. "All this high school nonsense." He snorted, with a wave of his hand. "It won't make or break you. There's always time for university in the future!" He looked at John with a meaningful expression, sitting forward a few inches in his easy chair. "But your body won't always be at this peak of fitness. Hell, it probably won't be at this peak of fitness five years from now."

His father always went extremely red in the face when he started on about John's brilliant, nonexistent football career. John inwardly sighed. A psychologist would have a field day in his house.

"I know, dad," he said quietly.

"Well," his father said, with an offhand cough. "Look. We'll do some practices before you go back. What do you say to that?"

What could he say to that? "Yes dad," John mumbled, avoiding everyone's eye. But especially Sherlock's.

"You kids run along then," his father said, making the chair give a loud squeal as he sat back in it. "I've got plenty of work to be doing. Angela, get me a juice, will you?"

His mother immediately stood. "Yes, dear," she mumbled.

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock watching her as she went out. It gave him no pleasure sharing this aspect of his life with him. He knew exactly what he was thinking. The worst part of it was that he was right. His father was a bastard. His mother was weak. And there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it.

\--

That night Mrs and Mr Watson had a blazing argument. Through the paper-thin walls it was almost impossible not to hear every word. Mr. Watson's heavy office shoes sounded like distant gunfire on the kitchen tiles and every so often there was a tremendous crash as Mrs Watson slammed one of the plates into the dishwasher.

Sherlock stared up at the darkened ceiling from his mattress on John's floor, trying to tune it out for John's sake. He could hear John's breathing through the darkness. He was certain that he was not asleep.

There was a distant smash as the door of the dishwasher was slammed shut and the argument seemed to migrate into the living room and wasn't so easy to make out. Sherlock could only hope they tired each other out before midnight.

"Sherlock."

He jerked as he felt a cold hand suddenly touch his arm in the darkness.

"Is this the part where you say "are you asleep"?" Sherlock mumbled.

John didn't reply. Downstairs the living room door was slammed furiously and the whole house seemed to tremble with the force. There were footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock heard John inhale sharply as his father walked noisily past the door, muttering under his breath. The door along the hall shut with a sharp snap and silence fell, painfully thick around them.

Sherlock knew this was the last thing John would want him to know about him. More than half of him regretted coming here and inflicting it on him like some sort of sick punishment, but he didn't know how to fix what had been done or what he felt. He wanted to forgive John and forget that anything had ever happened and focus on shielding him from the dark things in his life, but he didn't even know if he had the right to be forgiving anyone and that made his anger seem sick and unwarranted.

Without completely knowing what he intended to do or say, he kicked the covers off his makeshift bed on the floor and carefully slid under the covers of John's bed. The springs gave a low groan and John jerked in alarm against him.

"Sherlock," he hissed, as Sherlock knelt over him, one knee on either side of John's thighs and his mouth very close to John's left ear. "Get off me. Are you fucking insane?"

He gave him a half-hearted shove. Sherlock leant back to look at him. It was hard to see anything in the dark but he had the feeling that John was blushing. He could almost feel the heat radiating off of him under the covers.

He vaguely touched John's hair, careful not to accidentally poke him in the eye. John didn't need him to ask the inevitable "are you ok?" question. John wouldn't want him to ask that question. Nonetheless, Sherlock could feel him trembling slightly under the covers.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leant down in what he hoped was roughly the direction of John's lips. In the dark it was almost asking for trouble. His already overactive imagination had been replaying the moment outside of the club in painful detail over and over all day. The image of Mycroft pressed against John, hands on his waist, lips crushed against his-

He broke away and got off of the bed. "I can't."

John sat up, his expression impossible to see in the dark. "What do you mean?"

"Every time I close my eyes I see-"

He broke off. His throat was aching. He needed a cigarette.

"I don't know how we're ever going to get past this if you can't just let it go," John said softly, sounding breathless with hurt.

Sherlock didn't argue. He left John's bedroom and went downstairs. There was a light on in the kitchen. When he went in, he found the door to the back patio was open and the light was streaming in from there. He could smell cigarette smoke. His mouth almost started watering.

He followed it out and found Mrs Watson perched on an old deck chair, cigarette in one hand and wrapped up in the same frayed, floral dressing gown he'd seen her in that morning. The hand holding the fag was shaking.

When he sat down next to her, she jerked and threw a hand to her chest. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed. "You gave me a fright."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, glancing at the cigarette between her fingers. "Can I?"

She raised a plucked eyebrow at him. "What sort of mother would I be if I let you smoke in front of me?"

"Fine," Sherlock said. "I have my own upstairs."

He stood. She threw out a hand and grabbed his arm. "No, it's alright. Have one of mine."

She opened her carton. She smoked  _Benson and Hedges_. They weren't his brand of choice but he couldn't face going upstairs. He had shot his mouth off again. Like an idiot. Like a spoilt child laying claim to his favourite toy, he had balked at the thought of anyone touching John and it was beginning to scare him just how angry he was at John for something he knew he had had no part in.

Sherlock perched the fag between his lips and lit it with Mrs Watson's lighter. It was pink and covered in tiny little plastic beads. He handed it back to her, taking a lengthy drag and trying to obscure just how much he had needed it.

Mrs Watson gave a short, abrupt laugh and held her own cigarette to her painted lips. "Sorry you had to overhear that, dear. He's never had any real concerns about what civilized people think of him. It's the real scumbags he wants to impress."

Sherlock thought about the parents at Redverse's last soccer game. Their indignation at their sons' collective failure, and knew what she meant. "Don't worry about it," he said. "My parents do something much worse."

"Oh?" Mrs Watson said, seeming interested.

"They don't talk at all," Sherlock replied, shivering a little in his seat.

She gave a low chuckle. "He just wants what's best for John. Or so he says," she added shrewdly. "Sometimes I think he's so determined to live his life through his teenage son he forgets that he's forty and-"

She broke off, looking at him quickly.

"Well. He's not a young man. He doesn't have the luxury of screwing around."

"But John does?" Sherlock said, glancing at her.

She looked at him, breathing a stream of smoke into the cold air. "I want him to be happy. More than anything, I want my children to be happy."

"So do I," Sherlock said, before he had realised what he was saying.

Mrs Watson was still looking at him. Past the smudged makeup and soft wrinkles her eyes were uncomfortably knowing. Sherlock glanced away, taking another drag. He couldn't say anything stupid when his mouth was full of smoke.

"So..." she said, her eyes still on him. "How long?"

Sherlock didn't look at her. He stared into the shadowy garden bed, the cigarette sprinkling ash all over his lap.

"What?" he said, even after his brain had decided there was no point in pretending not to know what she was talking about.

"You and John," she said. Her voice was difficult to read, Sherlock didn't entirely know what she was about to say. "Perhaps I'm being presumptuous. But... are you or are you not sleeping with my son?"

Sherlock stood up abruptly. "I really don't want to have this conversation," he said, staring at her in alarm.

He could imagine what John would do to him if he knew that he was talking about his sex life with his  _mother_. He had to quickly remind himself that he was angry at John, but even that couldn't justify this level of humiliation.

"Fine!" she said hurriedly. "Don't go. Stay a little longer. Please. It's so rare that I have someone to talk to about John. Harriet's always away and his dad is so... Well, you saw him. Please."

Sherlock exhaled and slowly sat back down. "Ok, but I'm not talking about John in... that way."

"Oh, heavens no," Mrs Watson said, with a smile. "I'm really not a snoop, Sherlock. I know it seems like I am. But I so rarely get to see him. I used to write to him but... well I think he's stopped reading my letters."

Sherlock nodded. He knew it was the case. He had seen John's growing pile of letters from her in his room at Redverse. He thought Sherlock didn't know, but as always John was useless at hiding anything that even the gentlest attempts at information gathering could discover.

"How do you know about John?" Sherlock said, genuinely curious.

Mrs Watson gave a chuckle, grinding out her cigarette on the arm of her chair and flicking it onto the concrete with a long, acrylic nail. "It became fairly obvious when he was fifteen that his disinterest in girls wasn't a stage. I think deep down his father knows it too, but he would never let himself believe it. It would break his heart, you know. It would destroy him. I think that's why Harriet left. She didn't trust herself not to scream it at him when she was angry. It's probably the one thing that could really penetrate that thick skin of his."

She lapsed into silence. Sherlock nodded. There were moths beginning to dance around the patio light. It must have been at least one now.

"Why did you never say anything?" Sherlock said in a hard voice. "To John? He could have used an ally, you know. Or do you really have no idea what happens at Redverse?"

She looked at him, with a mixture of sadness and tiredness. "I'm a semi-literate housewife who can't even say boo to her own husband. He doesn't need an "ally" like that."

"He doesn't like football," Sherlock said, a spark of anger forcing itself into his words. "He hates it. He hates that school. But he does it for you and for his father. He's not the one who should be sacrificing things to make others happy."

She gave her head a small shake and looked away. Sherlock saw the moisture gathering in her eyes before she did, but he couldn't pity her. "I wanted him to have everything I didn't have," she said in a low voice. "I got married at twenty, you know. When I was a kid, I barely turned up to school often enough to realise anything more than I fucking hated it- Excuse my French. I just wanted a way out. I would have married anyone. If they had promised that I would never have to go back there."

Sherlock realised he should have felt uncomfortable receiving this amount of insight into a woman he barely knew but he felt like he had known her for so much longer than just a day. He felt like through John he had learnt more about his parents and past than time could ever afford.

"If John wasn't at Redverse, I don't know what would have become of him," she said, her voice cracking. She tugged a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. "He needs this."

"He can still do what you didn't," Sherlock said, watching her more intently than he had watched anyone in his entire life. "He can still be happy."

"Can he?" she said, gazing out into the gloom. "Sometimes I think it's too late."

"It's never too late to be happy," Sherlock said, hardly able to believe that he was giving someone advice on happiness when he had been struggling with the concept for years. "I know he doesn't want to play football. What does he want to do? Surely you would know."

"A couple of years ago he wanted to be a doctor," she said at length. "But his father talked him out of that one," she added with a bitter laugh. "He's still got the UCL Medical School application form on his desk somewhere."

Sherlock was glad of the poor lighting or his surprise may have been too evident. His frequent assumptions that John wasn't academically inclined were, he feared, a bad sign. He had never seen John's schoolwork but the amount of time he spent training or with him seemed to make it unlikely that he would have much time to dedicate to achieving the grades needed for medical school.

He felt Mrs Watson's hand close over his on the arm of his chair. He looked quickly at her. He already knew what she was about to ask of him and he didn't quite know how he was going to do it.

"Look after him," she said, not releasing his hand. She was calm, but Sherlock could almost sense the desperation in her voice. "He hasn't got many friends in that school-"

"He's got plenty," Sherlock said, though he knew what she meant.

"None that really care about him," she said firmly, letting go of him and sitting slowly back in her seat.

Sherlock flinched. He'd been so preoccupied that he'd forgotten about his cigarette rapidly burning down towards his fingers. He dropped it onto the tiles, his fingers tingling from the burn.

"I'll do anything I can to help," he said.

He knew that wasn't what he really meant. What he meant was that he would do anything for John. There was nothing he wasn't worth. Sherlock couldn't believe it had taken someone like Mrs Watson to make him realise just how blessed he was to have John. Someone who understood him better than anyone else, who never tried to change him, who was kind and earnest and genuine.

Sherlock stood up. "Mrs Watson, thank you for everything you've done." He put his hand out for her to shake.

She stared at him, seeming slightly startled by the sudden gesture. She tentatively took it. "That's alright," she said, bewildered.

Sherlock let go of her hand with a tight-lipped smile that came far from naturally to him. He turned and walked back into the house. Everything was quiet. John's father didn't seem to have emerged from the bedroom again.

He went upstairs and found everything as he had left it; John's parents' bedroom door still closed and John's as well. He slipped inside, knowing John wouldn't be asleep. That he wouldn't have been able to sleep without knowing where he was.

He closed the door behind him and was thrown into complete darkness. He stayed where he was by the door, staring at where he knew John was lying. His mouth felt like it had forgotten how to function. The lamppost down in the street outside John's bedroom was throwing light through the cracks in the curtains and gradually Sherlock began to see the faint outline of John's figure, perfectly still in the darkness.

Sherlock's eyes were stinging. A throbbing ache had engulfed his throat.

"I really screwed things up."

He had spoken before he had really realised what he was about to say. John didn't move or make any motion he had heard him.

There was repression and misery in every inch of the unseen bedroom. The posters, the curtains, the barren desk. This wasn't John. He wasn't this person. And he wasn't the person Sherlock had brought home drunk and sobbing the night before, the person Sherlock had conjured in his warped, jealous mind.

Sherlock sat gingerly on the end of the bed, carefully avoiding crushing John's legs under the covers. "I should have known better than to take you to London," he said quietly. "I convinced myself I was some sort of fucking... saviour to you. I was selfish and stupid."

Every word felt like it was being torn out of his flesh. The act of laying himself bare for another person was completely alien. It hurt like nothing else he had ever experienced and he felt almost breathless with the pain.

"It wasn't your fault," he said, almost choking on the words. "I know it wasn't. It's just... " He faltered, dampening his dry lips with his tongue. "Sometimes the thought of anyone else touching you makes me so sick I can't think straight." He swallowed with difficulty. The taste of the cigarette was strong in his mouth. "You mean more to me than anything-"

There was a sudden flurry of movement from the bed. Sherlock was hardly able to catch his breath before John's mouth was pressed against his and his arms were around his neck, pulling him against him. Sherlock kissed him back almost feverishly. He felt like he hadn't kissed him for weeks and needed him so badly he could hardly breathe.

He was glad that he had stopped spilling his guts when he had. His thoughts were getting a little teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert for his liking. He wanted to keep swooning to a minimum in the future.

But as John straddled his hips, Sherlock's dignity more or less melted away. "I'm going to fuck you in your parents' house," he said into John's mouth, conscious of how husky his voice was from the cold and the smoke.

John moaned against his lips, rolling his hips against him. Whether it was conscious or unconscious Sherlock wasn't certain, but it sent a shot of pressure straight to his crotch.

Sherlock pushed him off his lap and onto his back. The darkness made everything markedly more haphazard but it rendered every little detail remarkably sharp in his imagination. The sensation of John's warm skin, his breath, every line of his body, every sound he made.

"You're a fucking tool, you know that?" John hissed, as he tore his shirt up around his armpits.

Sherlock took John's nipple between his teeth and John gave a shrill cry. "Shush," Sherlock said softly into his skin. "You'll wake the whole neighbourhood."

He knew they were taking a risk. John's door had no lock and he could only hope that John's parents weren't as indifferent to his privacy as Sherlock's were. However, John's moans were making it difficult to care if his father walked in that very moment.

He felt John arch up against him as his lips reached the skin below his navel. He could feel the band of John's pyjamas against his chin. "Sherlock," John said breathlessly. "Sherlock, this is such a bad idea."

Sherlock sucked hard on John's skin and he gave an almost compulsive shiver against him. "If you've got to scream, cover your mouth."

He stumbled blindly off the bed, almost breaking his leg on the mattress on the floor as he did. He couldn't see a thing and had to feel his way to his suitcase. He couldn't remember where he had put the condoms. He couldn't remember which zip opened which pocket. He couldn't even figure out which end was which in the dark.

"My father is going to hear us," John said through gritted teeth, from the direction of the bed.

"Turn on a fucking light!" Sherlock snapped over his shoulder.

"He might see it," John retorted.

Sherlock found the right pocket on his third attempt and staggered back to the bed, nearly killing himself on the mattress on the way back and almost crushing John when he fell on top of him.

"This is the last time we do it in the dark," he grumbled, yanking down his pyjama pants and his underwear.

"How do you want me?" John said, sounding embarrassed even when Sherlock could hardly see him.

"I dunno," Sherlock said, smirking. "What do you say to getting ploughed on your back like a girl?"

"Shut up," John snapped. He was definitely blushing now. "Fine."

Sherlock smirked wider to himself and gave him a shove onto his back. "Take your knickers off then, Mr. Watson."

He hooked his thumbs into the band of John's cotton pyjamas (with the miniature footballs on them) and waited for his signal to proceed. John clumsily raised his hips and let Sherlock tug them down. He did his underwear himself, with a great show of grumbling that Sherlock didn't believe for a moment.

He slid his hand between John's legs and gently took his cock in hand, caressing the underside with his fingertips. John groaned, thrusting his hips upward in a fruitless attempt to create friction against Sherlock's gentle touch.

"Fuck me already," he groaned.

Sherlock stuck his fingers into his mouth. It wasn't ideal. But the lube was at the bottom of his bag and there was no way in hell he was going to waste any more time trying to find it.

"Spread your legs wider," he said, feeling his way up John's thighs.

John moved his legs further apart with difficulty. Sherlock found his entrance with his fingers. He gently slipped one inside before John had time to tense up.

John made a choking sound beneath him, his nails curling into Sherlock's shoulders. "Ugh! Ah... I'm ok. I'm f-fine," he said shakily. "Do it."

Sherlock added another finger. John whimpered but it was obscured by a hand. Sherlock stretched him as well as he could without being able to see what he was doing. He had a sneaking suspicion that there was going to be more than a little friction when he entered him, but he decided not to mention it.

"That's enough," John said, his voice frayed. "I n-need you  _now_."

Sherlock's erection was beginning to throb and he thought it was time to oblige him. "Put your legs around me," he breathed into John's ear.

John sounded like he was gasping for air but he nodded and did as he asked. Sherlock had to bite his lip hard to stop from crying out as John's lower body was pinned perfectly against his, his legs hooking around him with surprising ease given how little he could see.

Sherlock pushed himself slowly inside of him. John arched against him with a silent scream. Sherlock's hand grasped the back of John's head, hair getting caught between his fingers and in his nails. The other was tangled into the bed sheets.

John moaned into his ear, as he pulled out and took a gasp of air. He felt like hadn't breathed properly all night. He pushed back into him and John released a helpless whimper. Sherlock knew he was fighting back the urge to scream, every few moments he heard him throw his hand to his mouth and make a desperate sound into his palm.

Sherlock wished he could see John's expression. His imagination was compensating for it fiercely. In his mind's eye he could see John's flushed features, his agonized expression as Sherlock pumped himself inside of him, his eyes closed in desperation, his mouth open-

Sherlock had to cover his own mouth to muffle the sound that was torn from his throat at that visualization. "Ugh-God, John. John..." he whimpered.

His movements became frantic as John's breathing became less and less controlled and his almost-screams became almost one a second. Sherlock knew he was holding onto John's hair too tightly but he wasn't complaining. In fact his moans were becoming almost dangerously vocal.

John reached his orgasm first and almost ripped a hunk of flesh out of Sherlock's shoulder when he did. His scream was muffled by a combination of his hand and his teeth. Sherlock reached his own a moment later. He almost tore a hole in his lips trying not to cry out. He rode his orgasm out while John whimpered underneath him.

When he pulled out of John, his eyes had adjusted to the gloom sufficiently that he could actually see him. He was flushed and Sherlock had successfully made his hair look like he had just come in out of a wild storm.

He rested on his heels and fumbled with the rubber. He peeled it off and left it on John's bedside table.

"Remind me to pick that up in the morning," he mumbled, collapsing next to John on the bed.

"I can't believe we just did that," John said, sounding exhausted.

"I can't believe you managed to keep from screaming bloody murder," Sherlock said archly.

John swatted at him. "Shut up."

"No, really. I'm impressed," Sherlock quipped. "And you didn't even have a pillow to shove in your mouth this time."

John laughed sheepishly and edged closer to him. They were both sticky and damp with a combination of sweat and semen but neither of them seemed to mind.

There was silence. Sherlock listened to John breathing close to him and felt a pang that he never had before. He could never have lived with himself if he had let Mycroft's manipulation tear them apart. It wouldn't be easy to forget what he had done. Sherlock knew John knew that. But they could try. They owed it to each other to try.

He put his mouth to John's forehead. "I'm sorry I made you cry, Johnny."

"Call me that again and I will hurt you," John mumbled.

_End of Chapter Nineteen_


	20. Chapter 20

To Sherlock it felt as though their three days in the Watson household was longer than all of the weeks they had spent in London. John was up by seven every morning and there were no cosy lie-ins. His father could burst in at any moment, John said and physical contact had to be kept to a bare minimum.

Sherlock hadn't told John that his mother was very much aware of their relationship and he didn't suppose he would until they were back in Redverse. John wasn't very good at hiding his feelings and if he knew that his mother knew, his embarrassment would be difficult for even Mr. Watson, with all his perception skills of a fruit bat, not to notice.

John was at the beck and call of his father. Sherlock was left by himself for hours at a time, while John was with his father practising. He came back at eleven or midday, covered in mud and grass and too tired to do anything but fall onto the sofa and lay there in a limp heap.

However, Mrs Watson was surprisingly good company. It felt as though she understood everything without him needing to say anything. She seemed unmoved by her husband's ferocious gushing about John and his curt disregard for her. Sherlock had a feeling that it had taken a few years for her to perfect the glassy, aloof facade she displayed to her husband. Sometimes her disdain broke through it in sporadic bursts but in front of John she seemed to apply every shred of will power into acting as though she was indifferent to her husband's uncouthness.

"Why don't you do something?"

Mrs Watson looked up at him from across the bench. "About what?"

"You know what I mean," Sherlock said, looking away.

She was silent for a moment. There was a chink as she put her mug down. "What should I say? Should I tell my husband that he's destroying his son's life? Should I tell my son that I know he's unhappy but I can't do anything to change it?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He had been saying the same thing to her every morning when they were left alone in the kitchen. Her fear and anxiety was so deeply ingrained in her. He knew she would never be able to face her husband, would never be able to face being the one who made her son an outcast to his own father and his peers. She'd rather he suffer in silence than take a risk and bring greater anguish unto him.

Sherlock had no such qualms. He had no doubt that if he let John coast through the last months of school in his comfortable shell he would regret it one day. He had decided what he had to do.

"We're going back to school tomorrow," Sherlock said offhandedly. "We're going to leave this afternoon so we don't have to rush in the morning." But really it was so that no one saw them arrive together.

"Yes?" she said, putting one of her slim cigarettes between her painted lips but not lighting it. "What precisely do you expect me to do, Sherlock?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said shortly. "I just thought that it might be nice if you said something to John before we go."

She gave a low chuckle into her cigarette. "You're so righteous, Sherlock. Are you always completely honest with my son all of the time?"

"Yes," Sherlock said firmly, and then he thought. He thought about the play still sitting in the bottom of his bag upstairs. He had known it was there all holidays. He had known that if they didn't work on it, it was unlikely that they'd get it done in time for the final deadline in one month's time. He knew that John's English mark rode on the back of this piece of assessment. He knew John loved that play and it made him happy.

Mrs Watson almost seemed to know what he was thinking. She gave a solemn laugh. "Look-"

There was a crash as the front door hit the hallway wall. John's mother visibly straightened in her seat as her son's and husband's footsteps sounded in the hallway. Sherlock jerked around in his seat. John had dirt in his hair and was clutching a filthy football against his hip. His father's broad hand was placed firmly on his shoulder.

"Excellent practice!" he said, giving John a hearty slap on the back. "He's not as rusty as he could be."

John slinked out of his grip and disappeared through to the patio. His father watched him go, his smile slipping a little on his face. He looked at Sherlock. "Morning, lad. Keeping the missus company? Don't let her bore you too much. There's a telly in the living room."

Mrs Watson gave a short laugh and slipped out of her chair. She went out to the patio, lighting her cigarette as she went. Sherlock moved to leave but he felt Mr. Watson's strong hand on his shoulder in the same manner it had been on John's just moments before.

"Thought we could have a quick chat, Sherlock," he said in a would-be cheerful voice. He dropped heavily into the seat Mrs Watson had vacated, staring at him with a wide smile pasted over his face that couldn't quite reach his eyes.

"Mr. Watson?" Sherlock said. He wished he couldn't see so much of John in his father.

"You're not on the team, are you, Sherlock?" Mr. Watson said. "You're not a footballer? Are you? Sherlock?" He kept saying his name like it was a new word he'd just learnt and liked the sound of.

"No, I'm afraid sports are not one of my many talents," Sherlock said coolly.

John's father gave a forceful laugh. "Academic are you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. He stared over Mr. Watson's shoulder to the patio doors. He could see John in one of the deckchairs, hunched over. His mother was standing with her back to the doors, the cigarette hanging limply between two fingers.

"Now..." Mr. Watson licked his lips. "Look, I have nothing against academics, Sherlock. I had to slog my guts out at school to get where I am today." He fiddled with Mrs Watson's half-empty mug, running a callused thumb up and down the handle. "But I didn't have John's talent. You see what I'm saying, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Mr. Watson held up a hand to silence him. The same way he did to his wife. "Look, Sherlock. I ain't saying that academics don't get you nowhere. They do! But when you have raw talent like that boy does," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "you don't throw it all away and go to some substandard university just because some teacher tells you, you should."

"Substandard?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

Mr Watson hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder and then leant a few inches forward." Look, let's face it. John's a good kid. He really is. But... come on, he's no Einstein."

Sherlock stood up. "Mr. Watson, I'm not having this conversation."

He couldn't breathe. He felt like he had swallowed something and it had got caught right in his throat.

"Sherlock!" he snapped. "Don't be so defensive!"

"John is not a dunce," Sherlock said coldly. "He thinks he's an idiot, because you make him feel like an idiot."

There was a screech of wood on tile as Mr. Watson got abruptly to his feet. "Now see here!" he said indignantly, jabbing a finger at Sherlock's chest. "You've known my son, what, a month? I've known him his whole life! I won't stand by and watch you bugger up his chances to-"

He lapsed into silence, swallowing hard.

He forced a smile that seemed to take every muscle of his face to produce. "Look. I wouldn't want to break up a nice friendship. You're good for my son. He needs someone with a good head on his shoulders."

Sherlock kept his eyes on the table. He didn't want to laugh but the words "bugger" and "head" coming from Mr. Watson's foolish, boorish mouth were just too amusing.

He got to his feet and gave him a painful slap on the shoulder on his way to the living room. Sherlock didn't move. He could see John talking to his mother. He hoped that their conversation was going better than his and Mr. Watson's.

"God damn that man," he muttered.

"Hey," John came back into the kitchen. His hair was sticking up and he had mud smudged over his nose. "What have you been doing all morning while I get tortured?"

"I just had a heart to heart with your father," Sherlock said quietly.

John's eyes widened. "Oh God. What did he-" He threw a hand over his mouth. "Let's go upstairs."

Sherlock nodded and followed him up. John's father was nowhere to be seen, but he'd left his tie and coat on the sofa.

"What the hell did he say to you?" John hissed, slamming his bedroom door behind them and flattening himself against it.

Sherlock stood by the window and watched him. He was treading mud and grass all over the carpet. "Told me I'm going to destroy your rising football career if I keep polluting you with my intelligence."

John stared at him. "What?"

"He thinks... Look," Sherlock sighed. "What did your mother say?"

John looked startled. "Not much."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

John exhaled softly and turned away. "Just stuff about school and football. What else?" He stared at Sherlock. A small frown formed on his forehead. "Wait. Did she talk to you? Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He wandered across to John's bed and sat down. John stared at him.

"Sherlock? What the hell did she say to you?" he snapped, flushing.

"Nothing!" Sherlock retorted. "Look! What the hell does it matter? She didn't tell me anything I don't already know and I certainly didn't tell her anything she doesn't already know."

John watched him, seeming (as Sherlock had intended) not to know whether that was a comforting or ominous statement. He covered his face with a groan. "Oh God. Let's get out of here. Let's just go. We'll stay in a motel or something and drive to Redverse tomorrow. I don't think I can wait until this afternoon."

"There'd be no point," Sherlock said, leaning back on the bed. "It's almost midday. Surely you can wait a couple of more hours."

John sighed and sunk down onto the mattress Sherlock had been using for a bed. "I know. It's stupid. I just feel so... so awkward. I feel like a child. Like an immature, infantile child. My father tells me what to do and my mother treats me like I'm four."

Sherlock paused. He didn't want to say too much. This wasn't the time or the place. "She really cares about you."

John flopped onto his back, still dressed in his football kit. His shirt edged up his slim, tanned stomach. Sherlock traced the line of the blonde beeline from his navel down to the band of his shorts.

He hadn't touched John since he'd fucked him in the dark with his father in the next room. After that it had seemed wise not to tempt fate and attempt anything like it again in John's parents' house.

John tilted his head towards him, finding his eyes on him. "Stop perving."

Sherlock smirked. "You have a sick mind. I was doing no such thing."

God, he was getting hard. It was his own fault. But it was John's too, sprawled on his back with his legs open. Without saying anything, Sherlock lay on his stomach and slid a hand down between John's thighs.

John squirmed. "Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock cupped his hand around John's cock through the thin polyester and squeezed. John arched his back with a soft gasp.

" _Stop_ , Sherlock."

"You could move a few inches to the right but you choose to stay right where you, within optimal groping range," Sherlock said, beginning to rub him against his palm. "That suggests you don't really want me to stop."

John struggled onto his elbows. He was rocking very slightly against Sherlock's palm. "I don't want you to stop. I want you to get me off right here. I want to come all over your hand, but not in my parents'  _house_."

Sherlock buried his face into the covers of John's bed with a groan. "You dirty slut. Stop talking like that. I'll lose it."

John grinned and stood up. Sherlock let his hand fall limp onto the mattress. "I've got to get out of these clothes."

Sherlock tilted his head towards him. He had left mud all over the mattress. John pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt from his wardrobe and draped them over his desk chair.

Sherlock looked at the desk. John's mother had said that he still had the medical school application form on there somewhere. He wondered where he had put it. In one of the plastic folders on top or in one of the drawers perhaps.

John pealed off his kit and left it in a pile by the door. Sherlock stared as he took off his underwear and bent down to get a fresh pair from the drawers.

"You're a goddamn tease," he said, looking away from John's bare arse.

John straightened up and pulled on his signature pair of grey boxer briefs. Sherlock watched as he snatched his jeans from the chair and pulled them on, swallowing every inch of his perfect flesh in dull blue denim.

"You know that day last year when I walked in on you in the changing rooms?" Sherlock said, leaning back against John's poster peppered wall.

John frowned at him, pausing in the motion of putting his shirt on. "What?"

Sherlock closed his eyes with a laugh. "My God. You don't remember."

"Remember what?" John demanded, putting his hands on his hips.

"I walked in on you in the changing rooms," Sherlock said, opening one eye. "God, you only had your underwear on."

John blushed. "I think you must have dreamt this."

"No, in my dreams you were always wearing considerably less," Sherlock said, grinning at John's flustered expression.

"Why were you spying on me in my underwear?" John asked drily, pulling the shirt over his head.

When he emerged, he looked more flushed and dishevelled than ever. "I think I went down there because the bathroom in the dorms was out of order," Sherlock said, staring at the ceiling with a foolish smile. "You were the last one left after practice. I walked in there and you were stripped right down to your underwear. You looked at me and smiled. I almost pissed myself."

John looked away with a blush and a barely concealed smile. "You're such a pervert."

For the remainder of the day, they did their best to get John's room back to the way it was before they arrived. John looked particularly carefully over the covers of his bed for any remnants of their activities three days before.

He had to leave the door open because his father kept yelling things down to him from the study and if John didn't reply within fifteen seconds, his father came thundering down to demand why John was ignoring him. Once from the window Sherlock saw Mrs Watson going to get something from the car. Her platinum blonde hair flashed like glass in the sun.

Sherlock waited all day for an opportunity to ransack John's desk for the application form.

He got his chance when John went downstairs to put his bags in the hallway. Barely knowing how much time he had, Sherlock tore open every drawer, pulling out everything inside. Old wallets, notebooks, calendars, paper clips, miniature dictionaries, envelopes, letters from the bank. There was so much crap he could hardly distinguish one form from the next.

He opened every single one of the folders on top. Some had report cards, some had doctors' certificates or prescriptions or bills from the dentist. He heard John on the stairs when he opened the last folder and found what he immediately knew was the application form. It was kept in excellent condition and clearly hadn't been looked at in years. In huge white letters at the top was 'UCL'.

Sherlock folded it and slipped it into the front pocket of his suitcase just as John opened the door. "Well, we can probably get out of here now."

Sherlock nodded. "Want me to call a cab?"

"Ah." John bit his bottom lip. "I sort of... I sort of promised my father that he could-"

"No, you fucking didn't," Sherlock interjected. "Tell me you didn't ask him to drive us up."

"Look, he offered," John retorted. "I couldn't say no. You can't keep spending your parents' cash on transport. It's a bloody waste."

"Great," Sherlock said irritably. "Just great."

John gave a frustrated huff. "Look. You think I want him there?"

"Whatever," Sherlock said, picking up his suitcase. "Let's just go."

He said goodbye to Mrs Watson amicably enough. He wished he could get a minute to talk to her by herself but he thought he could tell from the warm, lipsticky kiss she left on his cheek that she didn't think he was ruining her son's prospects.

"Take care, Johnny," she said, cupping her son's face and kissing him on both cheeks. "Promise you'll call."

"I'll call," John mumbled, turning very red.

He walked out of the front door very quickly. His mother winked at Sherlock.

"You take care too, dear," she said. She leant forward, lowering her voice. "Keep an eye on him."

Sherlock just nodded. He heard Mr. Watson's footsteps on the stairs and retreated out into the front garden. John was leaning against the wall he had puked over earlier that week.

"My vomit is still in Mrs March's acacia bush," he said when he saw Sherlock. "I don't think we'll be getting a Christmas card from the Marchs' this year."

Sherlock leant against the wall next to him. "Are you ready?"

"To drive three hours with my father? Not really," John replied.

"No," Sherlock said softly. "Are you ready to go back to that hellhole?"

John was silent for a moment. "I guess. It kind of pisses me off that I have to go back to pretending I don't even know you."

"I'll say," Sherlock said, rubbing his face tiredly.

It might piss John off, but it tormented Sherlock. The thought of having to go back to sneaking around, hiding in empty classrooms and watching John don his fake, frustrating exterior as some moron who didn't care about anything but football and booze was pure torture.

Sherlock turned away. He had to steel himself against these sensations. He couldn't let them take control. He had everything he ever wanted. He had John and John loved him and he couldn't keep demanding more and more until one day he lost it all out of pure greed.

"Alrighty, boys!"

Mr. Watson barrelled out of the house, wearing a grey pinstripe suit and twirling a set of keys around his stubby finger.

"Time to hit the road! Get those bags in the back of the car. What are you waiting for? We have a long way to go!"

Sherlock had a feeling this was going to be an extremely long journey.

\--

John almost felt relieved when Redverse's gates came into view. Three hours trapped in a car with his father (well, actually, it was probably more like two hours and forty-five minutes. His father drove like a maniac) had been even more torturous than he had imagined.

With Sherlock in the back observing their every movement and his father mentioning every inflammatory topic he could think of (football, girls, the team), it could not have been more perfectly designed to test him. John could almost feel Sherlock glaring at his father from behind him and was extremely relieved that Sherlock managed to hold his tongue and seemingly tune his father's prattle out the entire trip.

They stopped at the gates, John moved a hand to open the door.

"Hey! I can take you up to the foyer," his father said, grabbing his arm.

"No, it's fine," John said hurriedly. "Dad, really. We'll walk."

"Fine! Fine!" his father said, throwing his hands up. "I know you don't want to be seen with your old man. I can take a hint!"

John struggled out of the car with his backpack. "Thanks dad- for the ride... and everything."

Sherlock got out of the backseat, dragging his suitcase with him.

"I'll see you at the first game of the season then!" his father yelled at him through the window. "Train hard, son!"

John rolled his eyes to Sherlock. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They made their way up to the school. The grass was slippery and their bags made it a frustratingly slow process but it was better than spending another minute with his father.

"It's like he gets off on making me feel as crappy as possible," John snarled, through haggard breaths as they struggled along.

Sherlock didn't reply. John knew what he was thinking. He was wondering why John didn't say something if it bothered him so much.

Maybe he wasn't. Maybe the three days he had spent in John's house had made him see just what John's life had been like before him and maybe he didn't question why John did what he did and coped the way he coped.

The receptionist looked surprised to see them. Her eyes flickered from Sherlock to John and back again. "Mr. Holmes? Mr. Watson? Can I... ah, help you?"

John realised that it was their appearance  _together_  that surprised her. He supposed Sherlock's reputation as Redverse's resident loner was known to the admin staff too.

"Can we stay here tonight?" John asked. "Has anyone else arrived yet?"

"Yes, most of the international students are here and a few of the other students," she replied, still staring at Sherlock. "You're welcome to stay, of course. Do you need the keys to your rooms?"

"No, that's fine," John said hastily. "We have them." He ushered Sherlock towards the doors, beginning to feel uncomfortable with the way the receptionist was goggling at him.

The dorms were as empty as a graveyard. The handful of students who stayed there during the holidays all seemed to be in the common room or in their rooms. John couldn't think of anything more depressing than having to stay in school over the Christmas holidays and pitied them.

He dropped his bags in a heap inside his dorm door and stared around the familiar surroundings. "Well, here we are."

Sherlock appeared next to him, staring at Billy's dishevelled belongings with distaste. "I can't wait until the summer holidays."

They went into Sherlock's room next. It looked very much like it had when they had left it. Empty, sparse and nothing like his room at home. John felt overwhelmingly miserable.

"How are we going to get through this?" he said helplessly, staring at the smudged window opposite.

Sherlock shook his head very slightly and hooked a finger into his hand. "Together. We'll be fine."

John didn't know if he could do what he knew he had to do. He had to pretend that Christmas hadn't happened. He had to pretend that he hadn't lost his virginity, hadn't kissed his boyfriend's brother, hadn't had sex in his parents' house. When they asked him what he'd done, he'd answer "nothing much". When they told him about all the girls they'd been with and all the parties they'd crashed he'd force a laugh and try not to feel disgusted. It was so much harder now.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, as though he knew what he had been thinking. He turned to face him, still grasping his hand between his longer, paler fingers. "We did it last year. We can do it this year."

John just nodded. He didn't want Sherlock to think he needed him to protect him. He was right; they had been doing this for months. A few more months weren't going to kill them.

"Look," Sherlock said. He wandered over to his empty desk and dropped his suitcase down beside it. "I know these holidays have been difficult-"

"Don't," John said, holding up a hand. "I don't need anyone to summarize Christmas for me. Let's just forget about it."

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. "Everything?"

John knew what he was thinking of and coloured. "Well... you know, not  _everything_ , just the bits with your brother in them."

Sherlock nodded unsmilingly and leant against the desk, folding his arms. "I should probably tell you something."

John raised an eyebrow. "That sounds ominous. You're not late, are you?"

Sherlock didn't laugh. "Look in my bag. The side pocket."

John stared at him. "What?"

Sherlock nodded at his suitcase leaning against the drawers of the desk beside him. John shrugged and knelt down in front of it. He unzipped the pocket along the front.

There was a stapled stack of paper crammed inside. John pulled it out and unfolded it, sending Sherlock a confused look. He glanced back down at it. "What is thi-"

He cut off with a jolt of realisation.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Your mother-"

"She had no right," John said, straightening up and still staring at it. "This was what she told you? That I want to get into medical school?"

"Something to that effect," Sherlock said quietly. "Look, if this is what you want-"

"No," John said sharply. "It isn't. I don't want things that I know I could never achieve. I'm not that immature."

"Who says you couldn't get into medical school?" Sherlock snapped. "I've looked at the minimum academic achievements. They aren't unattainable."

"You know I'm already struggling," John hissed. He felt like this was all a sick plot against him. His mother, Sherlock, his father. It was like they were playing a game to see who could make him feel stupider and more insignificant.

"I am not applying for medical school," he said in a hard voice, folding the application form back in two. "I'm not going to put myself through the unnecessary humiliation and exhaustion."

"You could be so much more-" Sherlock began and then caught himself.

"Than a loser?" John said coldly. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. But that's what I am. A loser. And I don't have any big ideals about what I'm capable of. I don't need you sticking your nose into my life."

He turned to leave. "Wait!" Sherlock said. "Look, don't go away angry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I just... It was stupid."

John grudgingly turned back to him. "No, you shouldn't have. If I want to go to medical school, I'd tell you," he said gruffly. "But... thanks."

Sherlock shook his head with a half-shrug. "You'd make a more than adequate doctor, John. You shouldn't shoot yourself down before you've even tried."

John hoped that Sherlock didn't notice that he took the form with him when he left, but he knew he would. He was glad he didn't say anything and let John smuggle it out, as though he hadn't seen him do so. He took the form back to his room and put it in the top drawer of his desk under his school notebooks. He didn't want it, but he didn't want Sherlock to have it. He just wanted to bury it back in the most distant regions of his memory.

He sat on the bare mattress of his bed and wrapped his arms around himself. They hadn't brought the linen around yet. He stared at Billy's ramshackle side of the room. He had barely taken anything with him, everything seemed to have been left in an untidy pile on the bed.

John hadn't thought about medical school in two years. Now when he saw the form again, it seemed even more ridiculous than when he'd first downloaded it off the net. And yet he'd never been able to quiet the part of him that yearned to be good enough to fill it out.

"Three A levels," he said under his breath, burying his face in his hands. "Yeah right."

\--

The next morning, the rest of the school arrived. Sherlock lay in bed, listening to the sound of what sounded like three hundred storm troopers parading down the corridor outside.

It was the first time in weeks that Sherlock had woken without John near to him. He was completely alone. He frowned to himself. Solitude had never bothered him before.

By eight the bell was ringing and the boys were being herded to home class. Sherlock got dressed slowly so that when he walked out to the corridor he was one of the last people left. He felt strange back in his school uniform. The socks seemed itchier, the shirt seemed to constrict his limbs and throat more than he remembered.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket as he was almost at the door of the home room. He had an abrupt thought that it might be John but that was unlikely, John was probably already sitting in class with his friends.

Sherlock slid it out and saw the name "Mycroft". With lips thinned, he pressed "ignore" and went in.

Mr. Hurst was already in his seat, which was surprising given his tendencies to be ten or fifteen minutes late. He looked at him when he entered with what Sherlock thought was a markedly weary expression.

"Mr. Holmes, you're late," he said tersely.

Sherlock scanned the rows and spotted John sitting in the back, beside Hester. Marty was sitting a little straighter in his chair than Sherlock remembered, and he wasn't scrawling profanity on his pencil case or digging holes in the desk with his biro in his usual deranged manner. John was writing something in his school diary and didn't look up.

"Sorry," Sherlock said absently.

There was a boy he didn't recognise sitting next to Hester. A slim boy with dark hair. When Sherlock looked at him, he found his eyes were already on him. That he was staring at him with an almost decided lack of tact. Sherlock looked back at him with a frown. He realised he wasn't the only one looking at the new boy, eyes were darting across to him every few moments. There was something weird about him. Sherlock felt ridiculous for thinking it, but he couldn't help it. It kept niggling at him.

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes," Hurst said, breaking into his thoughts. "Unless you have something juicy to tell us about your holidays."

Sherlock ignored the titters and took his usual seat. He could almost feel the boy's eyes on his back. He didn't like him and he didn't like him staring at him.

"Alright," Hurst said, snapping the roll shut. "Hope you all had a good Christmas. We have a few things to discuss before class."

Sherlock couldn't help thinking how strangely quiet it was with everyone so preoccupied with new arrival. He expected every moment for someone to make some barbed remark but none came.

"Firstly, I hope you've all done some work on your English assignments," Hurst said, after a pause. "The final date is in four weeks' time and I expect that you would be well into editing the final draft."

Sherlock felt a cold trickle go through him. The play was still in his bag. He had meant to give it to John; he had been planning to give it to him that afternoon after school. He'd have to say that he'd forgotten it. That he'd left it at school.

He curled his knuckles on the table in front of him. He hated lying to John. After all his self-righteous anger over Mycroft's treachery, he had no right to lie to him. Especially about something so stupid.

"Also, there'll be a meeting for the senior football team tomorrow at five in Mr. Bates' office," Hurst said, staring down at the list of announcements with his brow furrowed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Mr. Bates took Phys Ed with the idiots who were stupid enough to elect into it in their senior year and organised the yearly sports carnival but Sherlock hadn't been aware that he had much to do with the football team.

"And lastly," Hurst said, lowering the announcements and staring over the rims of his glasses at them. "We have a new student."

There was a screech. The whole class seemed to jerk in their seats. Sherlock looked around, the new boy was standing. There was an odd and not altogether pleasant smirk on his face. It was dancing in the corners of his pale mouth, just out of sight.

"Jim Moriarty."

_End of Chapter Twenty_


	21. Chapter 21

When Sherlock got to his first class of the day, he had at least five missed calls from Mycroft. It felt like it hadn't stopped vibrating since he had left home class.

Finally he turned it off and shoved it into the bottom of his schoolbag, irritated that his brother had now succeeded in cutting off the only communication source he had to John. He had nothing to say to his brother and he couldn't imagine what Mycroft could have to say to him. An apology was unthinkable. Perhaps he had squealed to his parents about what he had done. But that was unlikely. His parents had not contacted him and seemed to have, as usual, forgotten he existed.

He took his usual seat in the front row of the maths classroom. Given the other boys' preference to sit as far from Mr. Harris's tendency to spray all within two feet in front of him with projectile spittle, it was always completely empty.

Mathematics C was one of the few classes he took where he was in a class of people almost of an intellectual level he could respect. It was a brief respite away from the football team, none of whom were in Mathematics C. Naturally.

Mr. Harris's large stomached form waddled in through the doors, holding his usual paper bag of boiled sweets in one fat fist and a stack of wrinkled paper in the other. He sat down in his chair with a groan, almost in perfect unison with that of the chair, weary from years of supporting Harris's ample weight.

"Good morning, boys," he said, staring around them in his heavy-lidded manner. "We'll just wait a few moments longer. I've heard we have a new student joining us." He looked around them quickly again, clearly making sure that the new boy hadn't slipped in with the other faces that were already only vaguely recognisable to him.

There were soft murmurs from being Sherlock at the mention of who they all knew could only be Jim Moriarty. Sherlock didn't know what he thought about the new arrival yet. Small and pale, he wasn't the sort of boy usually coveted by the football team, and yet he was already getting chummy with Marty Hester. There was something discomfiting about that.

Barely a minute later, he walked in. The chatter abruptly died and Sherlock almost felt the eyes swivelling in the direction of the door. The Maths C textbook was tucked under his arm. He seemed completely unaware of the stir he had caused.

"Ah!" Harris said, nodding pompously to him. "Jim, is it?"

"It is," Jim replied, without looking at him. Instead he combed the room briefly. His eyes settled on Sherlock for one lingering moment and then snapped almost abruptly onto Harris. "Should I sit down?"

"Yes, yes," Harris said in a blustery way. "We're glad to have a new addition to the team, aren't we, boys?"

There were dubious mumbles of agreement.

Sherlock knew even before Jim moved where he was going to sit. He kept his eyes forward, determined not to acknowledge him as he slid along his row. Jim's sleeve brushed against his as he lowered himself into the seat directly to his right.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw him extract a black pen from the depths of his school bag. He couldn't help looking at it a bit closer when he noticed that it was covered with hundreds of teeth marks.

"Dogs," Moriarty said suddenly, catching him staring.

Sherlock glanced at him in what he hoped was a disinterested, aloof manner. The top of the pen had been chewed horribly out of shape.

"They'll rip anything to shreds," Jim said cheerfully, sticking the pen in the corner of his mouth and giving him a broad, tight-lipped smile.

"Well, as we have a new student with us," Harris said, his swollen pink eyes fixed on Jim. "We might as well do a quick test to see where everyone is after the holidays."

There were groans from the back row. Harris's tests were notoriously difficult, seemingly designed specifically to weed out any imposters who might have wandered onto the hallowed ground of Mr. Harris's Mathematics C class.

They were all handed a slip of blank paper for their 'work' and another with the questions printed on it. Harris seemed to have an inexhaustible store of test papers in his desk. Sherlock glanced down the page. There was nothing there that would cause him much difficulty.

Sherlock dropped the paper and sat back in his chair. He disliked maths. He found it dull and pointless. He didn't understand why anyone chose to force such stupid, inane facts into their heads when the world was full of accountants and mathematicians who assumedly enjoyed thankless drudgery and would take care of any numerical demands for a fee.

"Fixed point iteration," Jim said from beside him, breaking violently into his thoughts. "How quaint. Do we get to do fractions too?"

"You have twenty minutes," Harris said, staring down at his wristwatch. "Begin!"

Sherlock could feel Moriarty's arm pressed against his on the desk. He moved it as subtly as he could a few inches closer to his side, keeping his eyes down. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jim's pen moving over the page at a lightning pace. He hunched further over his desk so he couldn't see him.

For ten minutes there was nothing but the sound of pencils scratching and the occasional outbreak of furious erasing and then at a quarter past nine, Moriarty laid down his pen.

Sherlock almost stopped in the midst of his own test. He jerked his head in Jim's direction.

"Holmes! Eyes forward!" Harris barked.

Sherlock looked quickly down at his own test, feeling certain that Jim was watching him. He couldn't work properly now. There was something about Jim's arrogant disregard that made him determined not to make a mistake under his scrutiny. The harder he tried to bully his brain into a straighter and straighter line, the more it seemed to rebel against him.

Ten minutes later, there was Harris's call of "Pencils down!"

Sherlock looked up at him, almost panting. "Pass your papers to the end of the row," Harris said, struggling out from behind his desk.

Sherlock looked at his test and then slid it behind the confused mass of numerals and scribbles now peppered across the working out paper. He knew it was childish but he didn't want Jim to see his answers.

He watched Harris mark their tests. For twenty minutes he was silent while he steadily worked his way through the pile with his favoured red biro. He looked over one of the tests at least five or six times, his brow seeming to furrow deeper every time he did. Sherlock knew it was Moriarty's.

Five minutes to the end of the lesson Harris finally looked up from his desk. "Alright, boys! Quieten down."

Sherlock laid down his pen. He hadn't even finished half of the day's exercises. He'd been too distracted watching Harris.

"Need a calculator?"

Sherlock jerked and stared at Jim. Jim looked back at him with a bland expression.

"I would just like to say, Mr. Moriarty," Harris said warmly, handing the first paper to him. Sherlock glanced at it; there wasn't a single red mark on it. "The results of this test are very impressive!"

Jim took it back with the same bland expression, though Sherlock could still see the smirk flickering in the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, sir."

Harris gave another pompous nod and walked past him to the next row. As soon as he was gone, Jim made a loud sound like a snore and crushed the test paper between his fingers. He tossed it at the waste paper basket beside Harris's desk where it landed with a soft patter.

Sherlock's paper was the last to be returned to him. There was a collage of red scribbles over it, a veritable blueprint of arrows and circles and question marks.

"Keep your working out neat, Holmes," Harris said sternly.

"But the answers were right," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"It's no good if you know the answer and can't show me how you got it," Harris replied sagely. "You might as well be a calculator."

Sherlock felt his cheeks flare as he stared down at the paper. "Useless rubbish," he snarled, tearing it in two.

The bell went and there was a chorus of chairs scraping on the floorboards.

"Better luck next time, Sherlock," Jim chirped, as he stood up, shoving the destroyed pen back into his bag.

"How the hell do you know my-" Sherlock began furiously, but Jim was already walking towards the door. Whistling.

Sherlock stared after him, feeling frozen in his seat. He looked back down at his ruined test, his heart pounding.

\--

At lunch John found an unexpected addition to their lunch table. Jim Moriarty had an untouched ham sandwich in front of him and was rapidly texting on his phone. He didn't look up as John sat down opposite him. Ben sent him a dark look from across the table. John glanced at him and then back at Jim.

"Hi," he said, when nobody spoke.

"Hey," Billy and Ben mumbled in unison.

Jim didn't reply. He didn't even look up. John frowned. Ben was looking at him again, clearly trying to catch his eye.

Jim was texting at an alarming speed, his neat and well-filed nail darting across the numbers was almost blurred. He had an expensive looking silver watch on one wrist and was wearing the school's blazer. Something very few boys did unless they had an insatiable desire to get beaten up.

"Why the hell are you sitting with us?" Billy said in a surly tone, finally verbalizing what everyone had been thinking for the last minute.

Jim took a long time to look up. He held up a hand and pressed the 'send' button with a resolute prod. He slid it into the pocket of his blazer with a smile that revealed two very pointed canine teeth. "Marty extended his hand in friendship," he said, the smile not shifting. His eyes were intent on Billy. He seemed to have a tendency to bore into the person he was looking at. He could have drilled holes in their skulls with the way his eyes never left theirs, until something else attracted his attention and it shifted ever so rapidly to the next object.

John hadn't yet been looked at once and he didn't know whether he was sorry to fly under the radar of the boy's hard, dark eyes. They almost reminded him of Sherlock, but- No, they didn't. There was something about them that was definitely nothing like Sherlock's.

Billy finally seemed to falter under Jim's eyes and flinched away, fumbling with his sandwich. Ben was still staring at Jim with a hard expression but there was something about the way his eyes kept flickering away to the doors of the cafeteria that suggested he was wary of those eyes snapping away from Billy and onto him.

Behind Jim's head, John saw Marty enter. He stopped short on seeing them. Or maybe on seeing Jim sitting with them. Even from the distance he was at, John knew his eyes were fixed on Jim.

He seemed to notice John staring over his shoulder, because he turned in his chair. He gave Marty a little salute, his eyebrows raised. Marty stared at him motionlessly for a moment and then walked across to grab a tray.

Jim turned back to face them, looking amused. John glanced at Ben again. He didn't understand how Marty, enemy of anyone without a suntan, could know, let alone be on friendly terms with someone like Jim Moriarty with his Rolex watch and his blazer and sharp eyes.

"So... where-"

He had spoken before he had completely realised what he was doing. Jim looked at him, raising his eyebrows as though he had just noticed him at the table. He looked him up at down with one brief sweep of his eyes and John felt the dismissal like a smart. "Where did you meet Marty?" he said clumsily, fighting the urge to look away as Jim's eyes began their process of drilling into the depths of his brain.

"Where did I _meet_ him?" Jim said, turning around to look at Marty again as he came towards them with a tray filled with sandwiches, pasta and biscuits. "Or how?"

John didn't reply. He knew what Jim meant. Jim knew what they were thinking. They were wondering just how Jim had gotten close enough to Marty to win his confidence without getting his face kicked in.

Marty sat slowly down next to him, pushing the tray in front of him. "Hey," he said, not looking at any of them.

John's mind felt like it was about to overload on the strangeness of what was happening. Marty was not Marty. There was something clipped and tense about him. His usual leering, profanity peppered chatter was noticeably absent. He stuck a fork into his pasta, still not looking up.

"Hi, _Marty_!" Jim said in a fluty voice, his sharp smile returning. "I was just introducing myself to your friends."

Marty seemed to have a hard time forcing himself to look at him. "Yeah they're good mates," he said.

John stared at them both, transfixed. There was something about the way Marty said it that seemed almost pointed, as though he was letting them into some strange sort of confidence between him and Moriarty.

Jim glanced at them. "Really. I am... truly, very glad to hear that, Marty. Because I would be... you know, kind of put out if you were to provide me with people I can't work with."

"Work with?" John said, bewildered.

Jim stood, adjusting his tie with a small cough. "I'll let you _talk it over_ , shall I?"

He slipped his hands into his pocket and strolled away to the counter, humming. Ben, Billy and John turned and stared at Marty.

"What the fuck is wrong with that fucker?" Billy spat.

Marty gritted his teeth. "He's not a fucker. He's got more brain power in one cell than you have in your whole body, shit for brains."

"I ain't having that wanker eat lunch with us every day!" Billy said, his eyes narrowed into slits. "He dresses like a pouf."

Marty slammed his fist down into the table so suddenly that they all jumped. "Shut up! Either he stays or you get the fuck out. You got it, fatarse?"

Billy glared at him but said nothing.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably, hoping to defuse some of the tension. "What did he mean by 'work with', Marty?"

Marty looked at him, his cheeks still burning. "Look. I'll tell you later," he said agitatedly. "He's got... He's just got an idea for some changes for the school, alright?"

"Changes for the school?" Ben said blankly. "Have you lost your fucking mind, Hester? Did you fall on your head or something over Christmas?"

Marty glowered at him and stuck a piece of pasta in his mouth, chewing it in a defiant manner. They stared over his shoulder to where Jim was on his phone again, one hand still buried in his pocket. John glanced sideways at Ben, who gave him his I-am-offended-by-this-amount-of-faggotry look.

When he rejoined them five minutes later, nobody had spoken. They all seemed stunned into silence. Stunned that such a change had taken place in Marty that he was inviting the very people he disdained into their circle.

"Did we all have a nice little chit-chat?" Jim said, pushing his uneaten lunch to one side.

Marty was still watching Billy with narrowed eyes and didn't reply. John watched him. There was definitely something wrong here.

"Whatever," Billy tossed his half-eaten sandwich onto his plate and screeched his chair back from the table. "This is bullshit."

He got up and walked away. The rest of lunch passed in uncomfortable silence. John barely tasted whatever he was sticking in his mouth and Marty didn't seem to be eating at all. Jim on the other hand seemed completely at ease. He had cut the remainder of his sandwich into squares and placed each one carefully into his mouth. At his elbow, Marty was staring down at his food, twisting the pasta around and around his fork without ever bringing it to his mouth.

"We better get to biology," Ben said at length, sending John a meaningful look. "Come on, John."

Jim looked between them but didn't speak. Marty just nodded.

"Come on," Ben said in a low voice, his fingers pinching the shoulder of John's school jumper.

John stumbled upright, feeling himself almost yanked completely out of his chair. "Bye then," he managed to say before he was dragged away by Ben's grip on his shirt.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Ben hissed furiously, as soon as they were out of ear shot.

"Which one of them?" John muttered.

Ben shook his head. "Marty's acting really weird, you know? There's something really fucked up about him."

"I dunno," John said. "Maybe he's just pissed about having to come back to school."

Ben dropped his shirt and turned to look at him with a dubious expression. "When Marty's pissed he swears, he punches walls, he abuses people. This isn't pissed, this is... this is just fucked up. And that Jim fag is behind it."

"He's fine," John said quickly. "You barely know him."

"You can't tell me you weren't getting a really weird vibe from that guy," Ben said stubbornly.

" _Vibe_?" John said, rolling his eyes and walking on. They were beginning to block up the corridor. "He seemed fine. Just... different."

"He wears a blazer," Ben said flatly.

"Rookie mistake," John replied with a dismissive shrug.

They turned the corner into the science block. John felt like the breath had been kicked out of him when he found himself walking towards Sherlock. He was behind a group of chattering year tens, his hands in his pockets and his eyes irritably fixed on the heads of the stragglers impeding his usual pace.

He didn't seem to notice John until he was almost level with him. He looked at him but no change came across his blank features. John knew he had gone extremely red, he could feel the blood rushing into his face. His body was pricking with heat. He seemed to have forgotten how to act naturally around him without going to pieces.

Mercilessly Ben was too preoccupied with Marty and Jim to notice anyone around him and they passed Sherlock without comment. John looked over his shoulder but Sherlock didn't look back.

John turned away, trying to ignore the pang in his chest. They were _supposed_ to be ignoring each other. That was the point. Sherlock was just a lot better at it than he was.

But somehow it still stung John. After weeks of being the centre of Sherlock Holmes's world, it hurt to have to share him with a whole collection of people who didn't deserve to breathe the same air as him.

"Well, there's no fucking way that creep is getting on the football team," Ben said, folding his arms sullenly as they reached the door of biology classroom 201a.

"Does he really look like he's football material?" John said.

"They let you in, didn't they, stumpy?" Ben grinned.

"Fuck off." John elbowed him in the ribs.

John dropped his bag onto the rack, his heart sinking. Football. Well, it was bound to come up sooner or later. His friends' conversational skills were limited at the best of times. If Jim hadn't thrown a spanner in the works, lunch probably would have been one long dissection of football and the many possible outcomes of the season.

John knew that the loss was still burnt into the minds of his friends- and Principal Harvey. They hadn't spoken about it, but it would be there, niggling at the back of their minds. To John the humiliation of being bested was like a barely healed scar. The knowledge that he had been at the head of a losing team was more painful than he had imagined, the responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders.

"I dunno," he muttered, breaking the uneasy silence. "Maybe he's a better striker than he looks."

"If that nutter can kick a ball without breaking a nail or killing himself, I will give you my house," Ben mumbled, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

\--

Sherlock turned his phone back on at five. For two minutes it was like his hand had gone into a series of violent spasms as his phone vibrated in an almost continuous buzz. He gritted his teeth, glaring down at the screen.

"Eighty-five missed calls," he snarled, slamming it down onto his desk with too much force. "Fucking Mycroft."

He loosened his school tie and tore his jumper over his head, depositing both over his desk chair and plunging into the dishevelled sheets on his bed. He had really wanted to relax without Mycroft's being a shithead, but no such luck. The day had been long and occasional glimpses of John seemed only to make it worse. He couldn't touch him, he couldn't talk to him and whenever he saw him John went a violent shade of magenta that made him want to push him against the nearest wall it was so reminiscent of John's post-coital flush.

He gave a vague shiver and lent a hand gently over his crotch. He stroked himself a little, knowing it was likely to worsen his arousal than ease it but he was too comfortable on the bed with his hand gently palming the faint ache between his thighs to stop.

Even as he lay there, the image of Jim Moriarty came into his mind. He lifted his hand off his crotch, scowling at the ceiling. Every time he thought he had banished the episode in maths from his mind, it crept up on him again. He shouldn't have given a fuck, but he did. Moriarty was clever. But it wasn't just that. He was cleverer than _him_. That was the painful part.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed with an agitated growl. He didn't need his privacy invaded by the likes of Jim Moriarty. His only moments away from his classmates were precious and he didn't want to spend them agonizing over his possible inferiority to someone he didn't even know, who seemed to have formed an early taste for victimizing him in his quiet, self-satisfied way.

There was a quiet knock at his dorm door and he almost jumped out of his skin. "What?" he snapped.

There was silence and then another quiet, brief knock. Sherlock stood with a sigh and stalked across to open it. To his surprise he found himself face to face (well face to hair) with John. He stood back and John hastily slipped inside with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

"Hi," he said, resting against the door with a wry smile.

Sherlock watched him, trying to quell the desire to begin undressing him when his uniform was rumpled like it was from being worn all day. "Good first day back?"

John shrugged, pushing himself upright and wandering across to Sherlock's unmade bed. "Fine." He hesitated, glancing back at him. "Well... Fine."

"Well?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "Well, what?"

His mind immediately went to Marty Hester. He seemed to have been in a particularly foul mood that day. He'd seen him shove a kid extremely hard into a wall for not getting out of his way sufficiently fast enough in the hallway, something he usually reserved for the football field.

"You wouldn't care," John said, falling onto the bed and leaning against the wall. "It's stupid. It's just football rubbish."

"Try me," Sherlock said drily, sitting at his desk. He glanced darkly at his mobile. It hadn't gone off again since he'd turned it back on but he knew Mycroft wasn't the sort to give up.

"Well..." John started tentatively. "There's this new guy."

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock said coolly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

"Yeah," John said, looking sharply at him. "He's fine. I mean... There's nothing... overtly wrong with him. I just... He's-"

"Odd," Sherlock supplied.

"Yeah," John said in a deflated tone. "He's really good friends with Marty all of a sudden and when he came to sit with us at lunch he said some really weird stuff. I just don't... don't really get what's going on with them. And why is he coming here so late in the year? Where did he meet Marty?"

Sherlock twisted around to face him. "I wish I knew," he said.

They stared at each other in silence. John shrugged and slumped down onto his back.

"Maybe I'm reading too much into it," he said at length.

Sherlock stood and went over to the bed, staring down at John on his back. He propped one knee up onto the bed. "Look, maybe you shouldn't get too tangled up with Jim Moriarty," he said.

John strained to lift his head. "What?" He frowned.

Sherlock sat down next to him, battling with the overwhelming temptation to touch John's hair while he was watching him with such a serious expression. "Just be careful," Sherlock said cautiously.

John smiled, lifting up a hand and touching his mouth. "I'll be careful. Don't worry. I can take Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock caught his hand in his and pressed his lips to it, staring intently at John's face. "I missed you," he said quietly.

John tugged back his hand, sitting upright so their faces were inches apart. "We've only been apart one day," he said with a bashful grin.

Sherlock could feel his heart beginning to pump harder and harder in his chest. He leant forward and closed the space between them. He felt John's lips part in surprise against his.

"Sherlock..." John breathed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock pushed him gently down into the mattress, moving carefully on top of him and sliding a knee between John's thighs. John's body was warm and his uniform formed a soft layer of rough acrylic between them.

John broke away, gasping and blinking up at him. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John's hair. "See? I told you we'd get through it," he said softly.

John nodded, lowering his eyelids partly. "One measly day."

"It'll get easier," Sherlock said. He pressed another kiss to John's lips and then moved lower down John's jaw to the curve of his throat.

"I don't want being away from you to get easier," John mumbled, closing his eyes with a shiver as Sherlock's mouth tightened on his neck.

John's hands were still wrapped around his shoulders and John's neck was damp and hot from his kiss. John's grip on his back tightened with a breathless: "Sherlock..."

Sherlock lifted his head and pressed his lips firmly against John's, sliding a hand under him to grip his waist and pull him tighter against him. John spread his legs wider and Sherlock had to bite back a moan as his crotch was pinned unexpectedly against his. There was already a telling bump between John's legs. He slid a hand down and pressed his palm against it. John rolled against him with a strained groan, rubbing himself forcefully against Sherlock's palm.

From outside the room they heard a sudden explosion of heavy footsteps as a mob of students thundered past the door. They hesitated in the middle of their ministrations.

"Is the...?" John began.

"Yes, it's locked," Sherlock said, staring at John's flushed face with satisfaction.

"Not so daring when it's broad daylight, are you?" John teased, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock silenced him with his mouth and returned to fondling John with purpose through the thin material of his school trousers. He moved his hands under John's jumper and rolled it up his torso. John raised his arms, though he sent him a dubious look as Sherlock peeled it off of him.

"You're not honestly suggesting we fuck at this time of the day, are you?" he hissed, biting his lip when Sherlock ran his hands under his untucked school shirt.

"Night will be too risky," Sherlock replied with a grunt. "It'll be too quiet. Someone will hear us."

Sherlock began to undo the buttons on John's trousers, knowing he was grazing his erection with every movement. John threw his head back. There were red welts where Sherlock's mouth had been on his throat. Something he thought best not to mention to John.

"Now?" John almost squeaked. "Oh, God. Sherlock, are you insane?"

Sherlock gave a resolute tug at John's trousers. "Ok. I'll sweeten the deal. How about you take me this time?"

John stared at him and looked, if possible, even more horrified. "W-what- I-"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, sitting back on his heels on the bed. "Don't tell me you don't want to?"

John blushed, backing up on the bed a few inches and clamping his hands around his trousers, as though he didn't trust that Sherlock wouldn't attempt to ravish him. "I'm not... ready."

Sherlock stared at him. "You're not ready?"

"I'm not ready!" John snapped, stumbling off the bed and clumsily buttoning his trousers.

Sherlock watched him, exhaling exasperatedly. "You're happy to be sodomized-"

"It is not _sodomy_ ," John snapped, turning irritably to him. "We make love."

"I make love _to_ _you_ ," Sherlock corrected him. "Don't you want to make love to me?"

He saw John's features visibly twitch. He raised his eyes to the ceiling with a huff. "Of course I want to. But why do you always have to demand more and more and more? I want to go slowly."

"Slowly is dull," Sherlock groaned, resting his head against the wall. "Slowly is for people with no imagination."

He glanced at John and found him watching him with a very narrow expression. "I have no imagination?" he said flatly.

"You have some when you really put your mind to it," Sherlock said, enjoying teasing John when it made him go increasingly splotchy all over his face. "You know you want to fuck me. You've been fantasizing about it for weeks. Touching yourself, putting your hand tight over your cock, imagining what it'd be like to feel me around you, feel me orgasm when you're inside of me-"

"Shut up!" John burst out, throwing his hands into his hair and agitatedly turning away. He was furiously red.

Sherlock smirked. "Or am I mistaken?"

John sent him a dirty look and stomped away to the window with his arms sullenly folded. "You get off on mind games."

"You know I'm right," Sherlock said impatiently, staring down at the erection still straining against his trousers.

"Can't you just be satisfied with the arrangement we have now?" John said, in an almost whining tone. He turned to him with his arms still folded. "At least for a while?"

He walked back across and knelt in front of Sherlock on the bed. He licked his lips to dampen them, sending almost overwhelming amounts of heat to Sherlock's crotch as he watched him. John leant forward heavily on his palms so his mouth was a bare inch from Sherlock's.

"Of course we could always wait until I'm ready," John said in a low voice. "But you know... that could take weeks, even months-"

Sherlock made a frustrated sound and dragged John forcefully onto his hips. John let out a helpless gasp as Sherlock's hands moved over his clothes, tugging impatiently at his shirt buttons. Their mouths moved so fiercely over each other that it was almost like they hadn't kissed for weeks. John's hands were tangled deeply in his hair and his thighs were tight around his.

"You're nothing but a tease," he panted between mashing his mouth ferociously against John.

John gave him a flushed, bleary grin. Sherlock tugged his shirt off; hardly conscious of what he was doing with his hands when his face was so close to John's.

He could hear everything from outside. The students in the hallway, the sound of the people in the next room, the distant sound of the TV in the common room, voices and footsteps and noise everywhere. No one in the entire school knew that he and John Watson were about to fuck, right under the very noses of the people who strove to keep them apart. It gave him a delicious and almost dizzying high to know that he was defying every single one of them on their own wretched turf.

In a flurry of blind, fevered movement he somehow managed to get John out of his trousers- or at least get them down to his knees and found himself face to face with the grey briefs he couldn't quite seem to escape. He grinned, reaching a hand down and hooking a finger inside the band. John's hazy eyes fluttered.

"My old friend," Sherlock said, eyes glinting.

John went even more furiously red and gave him a gentle shove. "Shut up and fuck me."

"My pleasure," Sherlock said, suppressing a violent shudder. John straightened up and tugged his underwear down his thighs.

Sherlock sucked in his breath at the sight of John's cock straining away from his body, the tip red and already seeping pre-cum. He slipped a hand around it, caressing it hard against his palm.

John gripped his shoulders with a taut moan. "Oh, God... Sherlock..." he said breathlessly.

Sherlock struggled off the bed, hardly able to walk with the pressure between his legs and the pins and needles from having his legs curled up on the bed. He hobbled over to the dresser and tugged the top drawer open. He'd stuffed the condoms and lube in there until he found a better hiding place. Condoms in a sock drawer screamed 'amateur' in Sherlock's opinion.

Pressing the condom into his mouth, he undressed himself as well as he could one-handed on his way back to the bed. John was still on his knees, the grey briefs wrapped around his thighs and his school shirt unbuttoned down to his navel.

Sherlock put the condom on while he watched, careful to do it as slowly as he could so John could enjoy the sight like he always did. He loved the expression on John's face while he rolled it onto himself, the barely contained expression of desperation and arousal as he took in Sherlock's length and Sherlock's fingers so close to touching himself.

He was panting and glistening all over with perspiration. His nipples were very dark and very hard. The hairs on his arms were standing on end, it was almost like every inch of him was straining for Sherlock, every inch of him was hopelessly aroused.

Sherlock rested one knee on the bed, tilting the lube bottle upside down and letting some of the gel ooze onto his fingers. John watched with widened eyes as he rubbed the gel between his fingers.

"Spread for me," he said softly.

John lay on his back and slowly parted his legs. Sherlock touched the inside of his thigh and then gently touched John's pink, puckered entrance. John shivered and gripped the covers tightly but didn't complain. Sherlock gently pressed his finger inside. John gave a sharp writhe on the bed.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said, pushing in a second finger.

John nodded, between choked breaths. "F-fine. I'm fine," he panted.

Sherlock smiled to himself. He extracted his fingers and pulled John upright. John blinked at him dazedly, his hair was sticking up and he looked delectable. Sherlock dampened his lips and slid his hands around John's partly-clothed waist. He pulled him onto his lap. Their cocks touched and they moaned in unison. John clutched Sherlock's waist, his palms were damp and warm against Sherlock's skin.

He lowered himself slowly onto Sherlock's sex. Sherlock resisted the urge to force himself harder and rougher into him and let John go at his own pace. When he was deep inside of him, Sherlock buried his face into John's hair.

"Uh... Oh, God," John groaned into his shoulder, his breath hot against him. "F-fuck me, Sherlock. _Harder_."

Sherlock did as he was told. John moved rougher and harder against him with every thrust. His fingers curled into his skin, it would have hurt if Sherlock hadn't been blinded by the utter pleasure. John's limbs were wrapped around him like vines and he was moving at an almost reckless pace.

"John... Oh God, John..." Sherlock threw his head back with a moan as a surge of pressure jolted from what felt like his nipples to the aching tip of his cock.

John whimpered, his hands slipping on Sherlock's damp skin as he rocked feverishly against Sherlock's lap. They had never fucked so roughly. Sherlock felt engulfed in damp, hot friction and Sherlock's cock was throbbing with an almost painful level of arousal.

The sounds from the surrounding rooms and the corridor had become little more than white noise in the background. Sherlock knew there was little chance of their being overheard amongst the cacophony outside but he was conscious of every moan or cry that left his mouth.

"Sherlock..." John gasped. "I'm... I'm going to..."

His breathing was almost frantic. Sherlock forced him back a few inches so he could see his face.

"Come... come for me," he breathed, desperately trying to focus on John's face.

John moaned and bit his lip. He closed his eyes with an expression that almost sent Sherlock completely over the edge. It was an expression of nothing short of complete anguish. If Sherlock had seen it on the face of any other person at that moment he would have assumed it was the look of someone in extreme pain.

John cried out so loudly that a flicker of alarm went through Sherlock's lust drunken mind, but it was quickly extinguished the next moment when he felt John give a violent spasm against him as he came. John spent himself all over Sherlock's school shirt.

With a much more contained growl than John, Sherlock soon followed and thrust his hips as he orgasmed inside of him. He rode his orgasm out, feeling his seed dribble down between John's thighs.

Neither of them moved. Sherlock felt like he had been fused to John by a sticky mixture of sweat and semen. John was breathing haggardly into his shoulder, his hair gloriously dishevelled.

They could hear someone hitting a tennis ball against the wall outside of the door. It was unearthly and almost unbelievable to Sherlock that people could be so close to them and yet so oblivious to what they had just done. He almost pitied them for not having what he had.

By and by, they peeled themselves apart. Sherlock gently pulled out of John and went across to the waste paper basket to dispose of the used condom. John laid flat on his back on the covers, still only dressed in his school shirt, with his underwear around his knees.

Sherlock glanced down at his ruined shirt. "Look at the mess you've made all over my uniform."

John tilted his head towards him, his eyes still hazy. "Principal Harvey would be very unimpressed," he said hoarsely.

Sherlock fished out a clean shirt from his drawer. "Do you realise we're probably the first two boys ever to fuck in Redverse?" he said, buttoning it and snatching his underwear off the floor.

"I dunno," John said, staring at the ceiling. "There were probably some repressed Victorians doing it in this room in the 1890s. They probably haven't bought new bed stands since then."

Sherlock dug his trousers and underwear out from the confused tangle of blankets and John's body on the bed. "Don't compare us to repressed Victorians, it's depressing."

"You know we're lucky we're not one of those technologically advanced schools that have CCTV everywhere," John said drowsily. "Or we'd be in serious shit."

Sherlock knelt over him with a smirk. "But I'd say from the way you screamed like a girl it was worth it?"

John irritably opened one eye at him. "Your humility and tact astounds as always."

Sherlock's smirk widened. He lay down beside him on the bed. John was sticky and damp, but he didn't mind. "I live to give, John."

\--

When John got to the common room (after taking a shower and changing his clothes) he seemed to enter into a war zone. On one side Marty, being barely held back by three or four other boys was viciously trying to throw himself at Billy, who's far more liberal form was being dragged backwards by what looked like a small mob of bodies.

There was so much noise that John could hardly hear his own voice over the screaming of about fifty others. "Hey!" he bawled. "Hey! What the fucking hell is going on!"

He stared around the onlookers and spotted Jim Moriarty leaning against the nearest wall with his arms folded, looking perfectly unmoved by the mayhem. John stared at him and then looked back at the two struggling boys. Marty was sporting a cut over his eyebrow.

"John," said a hoarse voice in his ear. A hand gripped his elbow.

"Ben," he said, looking at him in alarm. "What the hell is going on?"

He shook his head. "They went insane. I've never seen Billy so pissed off. I thought he was going to kill Marty." He gave an uncertain laugh.

John shook his head and took a step towards them. "Guys!" he shouted. "Guys, stop it!"

He stood in front of Marty, trying fruitlessly to get his attention away from Billy. Marty was struggling violently against the hands on his arms and shoulders. "You cunt!" he was screaming at Billy. "I'll fucking kill you! You hear me!"

John sighed, massaging his temple with a hand. "Marty, can you calm the fuck down for two seconds? What happened?"

He looked at the boys holding onto him. They shook their heads, still looking vaguely shell-shocked.

Marty stopped struggling so abruptly that they almost lost their balance. His eyes were little more than slits fixed on Billy, there were red welts on his arms from where hands had been gripping him.

"That fucker attacked me," he spat.

"Why?" John said.

"Because he's a filthy cocksucker!" Marty hollered at him.

John rolled his eyes and looked at Ben. Ben shrugged at him. He went back over to him. "What happened?"

Ben looked sheepish. "Well... Jim... Marty..." He looked quickly over his shoulder to where Jim was standing, still calmly watching on. "Apparently Jim's been put in Marty's room."

"But you're in Marty's room," John said blankly.

"Yeah, so I'll have to move," Ben said in a taut voice.

A cold wave went through John. "Move where?" he said numbly.

Ben looked at him. "Guess."

John ran a hand through his hair, staring at Marty in disbelief. "Sherlock's."

Ben looked quickly at him. "We're on first name terms now with the freak?"

John didn't bother correcting himself. "Why can't you just have your own room?"

"You think Harvey would go for that?" Ben said dubiously. "Marty was the one who suggested it in the first place."

John stared at him in disbelief, almost feeling ready to run at Marty himself. "Why would he do that?"

Ben shrugged and glanced over his shoulder again to where Jim was. "Who knows?"

Two minutes later Mr. Blake arrived and broke up the mob. "Hester! Pip! What is going on here? Let go of him!" he snapped, shoving his way through the crowd around Marty. "What is the meaning of this!"

John shook his head, as the crowd dispersed around Blake. He could see Billy fighting his way through the mass of people to get to Marty, cutting a swath through the sea of bodies. "Why is Billy trying to kill him?" he asked Ben, as they retreated out to the corridor.

Ben shrugged. "He's sick of Marty acting like a fucking douchebag."

They watched as the crowd of onlookers began to rush through the doors and flood the corridor. Billy came out a few minutes later, shoving people out of the way and looking like he was ready to kill someone.

Jim was unlucky enough to be in his path on his way out and was given an unceremonious thrust into the wall. One of Billy's wide hands pinned him where he was. Jim didn't struggle. He watched him without a flicker of indignation or fear.

"You better watch your back, you little fucker," he growled, his hand twisting around the material of Jim's blazer.

"Hey! Billy!" Ben shouted, trying to yank him off. "Give it a rest, will you?"

John knew better than trying to physically move Billy. He tugged Ben back by his shirt. "Just leave it, Billy. What's done is done. Ben doesn't mind. Do you, Ben?" He looked meaningfully at Ben. He knew he minded very much so, but he was hoping that he could put his hatred of Sherlock aside for at least a minute.

Ben rolled his eyes at him behind Billy's head but didn't contradict him. "Yeah. It's fine. He's not that... bad..." It seemed to take every ounce of willpower to get those words out, and even then it was said with the same expression he'd have if he had just eaten soap.

"As much as I am enjoying this little... _insight_ into the minds of England's next welfare cheats, I wouldn't mind having my blazer back now if you don't mind," Jim said in a bored voice. "It's new."

Billy gave a low growl and seemed ready to strangle him. To John's surprise he let go of him and turned away. "Whatever."

He stomped away down the corridor, leaving Ben and John to stare at Jim in silence. Jim smoothed down his blazer, ironing out the kinks Billy's fist had left in it. He was still watching Billy as he retreated.

"He's not usually that... ah..." Ben struggled for a word.

"You just caught him on a bad day," John said lamely.

Jim looked at them with a blank expression, as though he had just noticed their presence. "I'm sure he'll warm to me," he said, with a smile that made John a little uneasy.

He straightened up from the wall. "So, ah... Sherlock Holmes."

John jerked before he could stop himself. Jim's eyes settled sharply on him. John felt his cheeks flush. The way Jim looked at him; it was like he knew what John had just been doing. Like he could see some incriminating evidence on John's clothes that he'd overlooked.

"You know him?" Jim said, raising a thin eyebrow.

"Everyone knows him," Ben said, folding his arms. "He's... famous." He gave a snort.

Jim raised a second eyebrow, still looking at John uncomfortably closely. John fidgeted, feeling heat beginning to creep up his neck. "Famous?" He seemed to be asking John the question.

John shrugged, his eyes flickering away from his. "I'm surprised Harvey didn't stick you in with him," Ben said, sounding slightly resentful of the fact.

"It _is_ surprising, isn't it?" Jim said, straightening his tie. "Well, I'd best go and make up with Billy. Can't have any little cracks in the team, can we?"

Ben and John watched him stroll away down the corridor. "He's so weird," Ben said. "He might actually be weirder than Holmes."

John got the feeling he was only saying that to comfort himself over the fact that soon his every move would be under the scrutiny of Sherlock's grey eyes. John's heart sunk. He had forgotten about that little detail.

"Yeah," he said absently, staring after him. "I guess."

When he got back to his room, Billy was nowhere to be found but his bed was neatly made, which was strangely out of character for him. Well, as neatly made as Billy's bed was ever likely to be. There were still clothes strewn across it and a sticky, empty bottle of ginger beer lying idly next to one of the pillows.

John sat for a while in silence. He felt strange. An hour ago he and Sherlock had been having sex and now he was alone and they probably wouldn't be able to touch each other for another whole day. His stomach seemed to give a protesting ache at the thought.

He walked across to his desk and opened the top drawer. A corner of the medical school application form was sticking out from under his school books. He closed it again and turned away. He had managed to banish it from his mind for almost the entire day. Now, as soon as he was alone, it started niggling at him again. Sherlock had been conspicuously quiet on the issue of medical school when they'd been together. He didn't want to force the issue. He didn't want to frighten him off. John knew what he was doing, but he appreciated it. On one hand, it would be easier to reject the idea of medical school if he could blame it on Sherlock nagging him but on the other hand he didn't need the extra stress on top of everything else.

A voice in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock's, kept asserting that he _wanted_ it and he knew he wanted it. He was just too frightened that he'd fail in the pursuit of it.

He sunk down in his desk chair and buried his head in his hands. The worst thing about it was that the voice was right. Sherlock knew him better than he knew himself. He always did.

\--

Scowling, Sherlock went through his phone inbox. Mycroft had flooded it. He had at least fifty " _Call me, you idiot"_ s and at least twenty " _Would you please answer my calls and stop being so immature?"_ s. Sherlock took pleasure in deleting each and every one.

The venom he felt towards his brother for what he had done was marred ever so slightly by a niggling curiosity. He couldn't imagine what his brother could have to say that was so important, so necessary that he would risk Sherlock thinking he was trying to apologise.

He dropped his phone onto the covers, rubbing a hand through his hair. He didn't know how long his brother would keep harassing him; he didn't know how long he could ignore it. Sinking into the covers, he stroked his hand down the place John had been laying just hours beforehand.

He'd heard the chaos outside but hadn't ventured out to investigate. He knew in his heart that it had had something to do with Jim Moriarty. He didn't know how but there was something about the newcomer that made him deeply uneasy. He knew that if he said this to anyone, John included, they'd just accuse him of being jealous because Jim was the first person who had ever come close to rivalling him intellectually. Maybe he was jealous. But that didn't change the feeling in his gut.

The only thing he could thank Jim for was distracting John sufficiently from the play. He hadn't mentioned it and seemed to have forgotten about it, which gave Sherlock at least until English class that day to think of an excuse for why he had kept it from him all Christmas.

He flopped down onto his back with a sigh. Everything in the dorms was very quiet. John hadn't texted him all night. Sherlock had considered texting him but he didn't want him to think he couldn't go one night without him. Also, they had to be careful. They couldn't just text each other whenever they wanted now. If they were in the wrong place at the wrong time it could mean the end of everything.

Outside there was a loud slam. It sounded like one of the doors further down the corridor had been thrown open against the wall. Sherlock sat upright. One slam was followed by a second slam, until it sounded like there was a chorus of doors being thrown open. It was soon joined by a rising crescendo of voices and footsteps.

Sherlock stared at the door. He tossed up whether to go or stay. One of the boys had probably just thrown up in his bed or something.

It wasn't until he heard Blake's whistle blasting up the hallway that he threw his legs over the side of the bed and went for the door. Outside there were at least fifty boys out of their rooms, talking excitedly amongst themselves and straining to get a better look at where the madness was concentrated. Sherlock stared down to where the seeming eye of the storm was. He could see Blake's balding crown about twenty feet away, still blowing the whistle at the top of his lungs and bawling: "Get out of the way! Stand back! Get back to your rooms this instance!"

The thickest throng of people were ringed around the room three or four doors down from his. Sherlock realised with a cold jolt that it was John's room. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he shoved the boys nearest to him out of his way. He elbowed his way up to the crowd around number 18. The door was thrown open.

As he got nearer he could hear a terrible sound. The sound of someone screaming in what sounded like agony. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He struggled through the thickest part of the crowd.

"Oh God, John," he heard himself breathe without meaning to. Everyone was too distracted to notice him anyway.

He flung himself towards the door and felt almost weak with relief when he found John flattened against the doorframe, his face incredibly pale and damp. Sherlock came so close to touching him, he had to curl his fists to keep from acting on the temptation. John stared at him with wide eyes, hardly seeming to register who he was.

Sherlock looked past him to the bedroom. Blake was knelt down by the writhing and moaning form of Billy Pip. Sherlock's breath seemed to leave his body. Blake was on his phone.

"I need an ambulance," he was saying in a clipped voice. "A boy's been hurt. Redverse School on Thomas Street."

Sherlock stared at Billy's bed. The covers were in an untidy pile at the bottom of the bed. The mattress was positively crawling with ants. Large ants with reddish looking heads. They looked poisonous.

Billy was covered in angry looking welts; on his face, on his arms, on his legs. Sherlock could hardly look away. The sight had paralysed him.

"Someone get Principal Harvey!" Blake barked, twisting around to look at them and shoving the phone back in his shirt pocket. "You! Holmes! Go now."

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel. He passed John and felt his arm graze against his. He would have done anything to be able to do something more but he didn't dare. He just hoped John had felt it and knew what it meant.

He forced his way back through the crowd. There seemed to be more boys than when he had first come down. But as he walked further down the corridor the mob thinned. He was near the stairs when he spotted a lone figure well removed from the bulk of the excitement.

"What are you doing?" he said, stopping short at him.

Jim smiled at him. He was still dressed in his uniform. His hair was so pristine, it didn't look like he had lain down all night. Perhaps that was why he was so pale and had such dark circles under his eyes.

"Enjoying the show," he replied, his expression was difficult to see in the poor light. "Where are you scurrying off to?"

"I have to get the principal," Sherlock said curtly, turning away.

Jim scoffed. "That senile imbecile? What's he going to do? Help with the cover up?"

Sherlock stopped short on the stairs. "What do you mean _cover up_?"

"A nest of fire ants don't find their way into someone's bed by accident," Jim said. He straightened up from the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock watched him, narrowing his eyes. "How do you know what happened?"

A smirk crept onto Jim's face, it seemed to begin at the corners of his mouth and then spread across his entire mouth. "Very clever, Sherlock. I was beginning to be worried that everything I'd heard about you was hype."

"Hype? What are you talking about?" Sherlock snapped.

Jim's smirk widened. Sherlock tried to suppress a shiver. Jim took a step towards him, the light fell over his face and Sherlock could see his eyes. "You better run along to Principal Harvey, Sherlock. We can talk in the morning."

Sherlock watched him in silence. Jim turned on his heel and walked away down the dimly lit corridor back towards the bulk of the crowd.

_ End of Chapter Twenty-One _

 Chapter Twenty-One:

When Sherlock got to his first class of the day, he had at least five missed calls from Mycroft. It felt like it hadn't stopped vibrating since he had left home class.

Finally he turned it off and shoved it into the bottom of his schoolbag, irritated that his brother had now succeeded in cutting off the only communication source he had to John. He had nothing to say to his brother and he couldn't imagine what Mycroft could have to say to him. An apology was unthinkable. Perhaps he had squealed to his parents about what he had done. But that was unlikely. His parents had not contacted him and seemed to have, as usual, forgotten he existed.

He took his usual seat in the front row of the maths classroom. Given the other boys' preference to sit as far from Mr. Harris's tendency to spray all within two feet in front of him with projectile spittle, it was always completely empty.

Mathematics C was one of the few classes he took where he was in a class of people almost of an intellectual level he could respect. It was a brief respite away from the football team, none of whom were in Mathematics C. Naturally.

Mr. Harris's large stomached form waddled in through the doors, holding his usual paper bag of boiled sweets in one fat fist and a stack of wrinkled paper in the other. He sat down in his chair with a groan, almost in perfect unison with that of the chair, weary from years of supporting Harris's ample weight.

"Good morning, boys," he said, staring around them in his heavy-lidded manner. "We'll just wait a few moments longer. I've heard we have a new student joining us." He looked around them quickly again, clearly making sure that the new boy hadn't slipped in with the other faces that were already only vaguely recognisable to him.

There were soft murmurs from being Sherlock at the mention of who they all knew could only be Jim Moriarty. Sherlock didn't know what he thought about the new arrival yet. Small and pale, he wasn't the sort of boy usually coveted by the football team, and yet he was already getting chummy with Marty Hester. There was something discomfiting about that.

Barely a minute later, he walked in. The chatter abruptly died and Sherlock almost felt the eyes swivelling in the direction of the door. The Maths C textbook was tucked under his arm. He seemed completely unaware of the stir he had caused.

"Ah!" Harris said, nodding pompously to him. "Jim, is it?"

"It is," Jim replied, without looking at him. Instead he combed the room briefly. His eyes settled on Sherlock for one lingering moment and then snapped almost abruptly onto Harris. "Should I sit down?"

"Yes, yes," Harris said in a blustery way. "We're glad to have a new addition to the team, aren't we, boys?"

There were dubious mumbles of agreement.

Sherlock knew even before Jim moved where he was going to sit. He kept his eyes forward, determined not to acknowledge him as he slid along his row. Jim's sleeve brushed against his as he lowered himself into the seat directly to his right.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw him extract a black pen from the depths of his school bag. He couldn't help looking at it a bit closer when he noticed that it was covered with hundreds of teeth marks.

"Dogs," Moriarty said suddenly, catching him staring.

Sherlock glanced at him in what he hoped was a disinterested, aloof manner. The top of the pen had been chewed horribly out of shape.

"They'll rip anything to shreds," Jim said cheerfully, sticking the pen in the corner of his mouth and giving him a broad, tight-lipped smile.

"Well, as we have a new student with us," Harris said, his swollen pink eyes fixed on Jim. "We might as well do a quick test to see where everyone is after the holidays."

There were groans from the back row. Harris's tests were notoriously difficult, seemingly designed specifically to weed out any imposters who might have wandered onto the hallowed ground of Mr. Harris's Mathematics C class.

They were all handed a slip of blank paper for their 'work' and another with the questions printed on it. Harris seemed to have an inexhaustible store of test papers in his desk. Sherlock glanced down the page. There was nothing there that would cause him much difficulty.

Sherlock dropped the paper and sat back in his chair. He disliked maths. He found it dull and pointless. He didn't understand why anyone chose to force such stupid, inane facts into their heads when the world was full of accountants and mathematicians who assumedly enjoyed thankless drudgery and would take care of any numerical demands for a fee.

"Fixed point iteration," Jim said from beside him, breaking violently into his thoughts. "How quaint. Do we get to do fractions too?"

"You have twenty minutes," Harris said, staring down at his wristwatch. "Begin!"

Sherlock could feel Moriarty's arm pressed against his on the desk. He moved it as subtly as he could a few inches closer to his side, keeping his eyes down. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jim's pen moving over the page at a lightning pace. He hunched further over his desk so he couldn't see him.

For ten minutes there was nothing but the sound of pencils scratching and the occasional outbreak of furious erasing and then at a quarter past nine, Moriarty laid down his pen.

Sherlock almost stopped in the midst of his own test. He jerked his head in Jim's direction.

"Holmes! Eyes forward!" Harris barked.

Sherlock looked quickly down at his own test, feeling certain that Jim was watching him. He couldn't work properly now. There was something about Jim's arrogant disregard that made him determined not to make a mistake under his scrutiny. The harder he tried to bully his brain into a straighter and straighter line, the more it seemed to rebel against him.

Ten minutes later, there was Harris's call of "Pencils down!"

Sherlock looked up at him, almost panting. "Pass your papers to the end of the row," Harris said, struggling out from behind his desk.

Sherlock looked at his test and then slid it behind the confused mass of numerals and scribbles now peppered across the working out paper. He knew it was childish but he didn't want Jim to see his answers.

He watched Harris mark their tests. For twenty minutes he was silent while he steadily worked his way through the pile with his favoured red biro. He looked over one of the tests at least five or six times, his brow seeming to furrow deeper every time he did. Sherlock knew it was Moriarty's.

Five minutes to the end of the lesson Harris finally looked up from his desk. "Alright, boys! Quieten down."

Sherlock laid down his pen. He hadn't even finished half of the day's exercises. He'd been too distracted watching Harris.

"Need a calculator?"

Sherlock jerked and stared at Jim. Jim looked back at him with a bland expression.

"I would just like to say, Mr. Moriarty," Harris said warmly, handing the first paper to him. Sherlock glanced at it; there wasn't a single red mark on it. "The results of this test are very impressive!"

Jim took it back with the same bland expression, though Sherlock could still see the smirk flickering in the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, sir."

Harris gave another pompous nod and walked past him to the next row. As soon as he was gone, Jim made a loud sound like a snore and crushed the test paper between his fingers. He tossed it at the waste paper basket beside Harris's desk where it landed with a soft patter.

Sherlock's paper was the last to be returned to him. There was a collage of red scribbles over it, a veritable blueprint of arrows and circles and question marks.

"Keep your working out neat, Holmes," Harris said sternly.

"But the answers were right," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"It's no good if you know the answer and can't show me how you got it," Harris replied sagely. "You might as well be a calculator."

Sherlock felt his cheeks flare as he stared down at the paper. "Useless rubbish," he snarled, tearing it in two.

The bell went and there was a chorus of chairs scraping on the floorboards.

"Better luck next time, Sherlock," Jim chirped, as he stood up, shoving the destroyed pen back into his bag.

"How the hell do you know my-" Sherlock began furiously, but Jim was already walking towards the door. Whistling.

Sherlock stared after him, feeling frozen in his seat. He looked back down at his ruined test, his heart pounding.

\--

At lunch John found an unexpected addition to their lunch table. Jim Moriarty had an untouched ham sandwich in front of him and was rapidly texting on his phone. He didn't look up as John sat down opposite him. Ben sent him a dark look from across the table. John glanced at him and then back at Jim.

"Hi," he said, when nobody spoke.

"Hey," Billy and Ben mumbled in unison.

Jim didn't reply. He didn't even look up. John frowned. Ben was looking at him again, clearly trying to catch his eye.

Jim was texting at an alarming speed, his neat and well-filed nail darting across the numbers was almost blurred. He had an expensive looking silver watch on one wrist and was wearing the school's blazer. Something very few boys did unless they had an insatiable desire to get beaten up.

"Why the hell are you sitting with us?" Billy said in a surly tone, finally verbalizing what everyone had been thinking for the last minute.

Jim took a long time to look up. He held up a hand and pressed the 'send' button with a resolute prod. He slid it into the pocket of his blazer with a smile that revealed two very pointed canine teeth. "Marty extended his hand in friendship," he said, the smile not shifting. His eyes were intent on Billy. He seemed to have a tendency to bore into the person he was looking at. He could have drilled holes in their skulls with the way his eyes never left theirs, until something else attracted his attention and it shifted ever so rapidly to the next object.

John hadn't yet been looked at once and he didn't know whether he was sorry to fly under the radar of the boy's hard, dark eyes. They almost reminded him of Sherlock, but- No, they didn't. There was something about them that was definitely nothing like Sherlock's.

Billy finally seemed to falter under Jim's eyes and flinched away, fumbling with his sandwich. Ben was still staring at Jim with a hard expression but there was something about the way his eyes kept flickering away to the doors of the cafeteria that suggested he was wary of those eyes snapping away from Billy and onto him.

Behind Jim's head, John saw Marty enter. He stopped short on seeing them. Or maybe on seeing Jim sitting with them. Even from the distance he was at, John knew his eyes were fixed on Jim.

He seemed to notice John staring over his shoulder, because he turned in his chair. He gave Marty a little salute, his eyebrows raised. Marty stared at him motionlessly for a moment and then walked across to grab a tray.

Jim turned back to face them, looking amused. John glanced at Ben again. He didn't understand how Marty, enemy of anyone without a suntan, could know, let alone be on friendly terms with someone like Jim Moriarty with his Rolex watch and his blazer and sharp eyes.

"So... where-"

He had spoken before he had completely realised what he was doing. Jim looked at him, raising his eyebrows as though he had just noticed him at the table. He looked him up at down with one brief sweep of his eyes and John felt the dismissal like a smart. "Where did you meet Marty?" he said clumsily, fighting the urge to look away as Jim's eyes began their process of drilling into the depths of his brain.

"Where did I meet him?" Jim said, turning around to look at Marty again as he came towards them with a tray filled with sandwiches, pasta and biscuits. "Or how?"

John didn't reply. He knew what Jim meant. Jim knew what they were thinking. They were wondering just how Jim had gotten close enough to Marty to win his confidence without getting his face kicked in.

Marty sat slowly down next to him, pushing the tray in front of him. "Hey," he said, not looking at any of them.

John's mind felt like it was about to overload on the strangeness of what was happening. Marty was not Marty. There was something clipped and tense about him. His usual leering, profanity peppered chatter was noticeably absent. He stuck a fork into his pasta, still not looking up.

"Hi, Marty!" Jim said in a fluty voice, his sharp smile returning. "I was just introducing myself to your friends."

Marty seemed to have a hard time forcing himself to look at him. "Yeah they're good mates," he said.

John stared at them both, transfixed. There was something about the way Marty said it that seemed almost pointed, as though he was letting them into some strange sort of confidence between him and Moriarty.

Jim glanced at them. "Really. I am... truly, very glad to hear that, Marty. Because I would be... you know, kind of put out if you were to provide me with people I can't work with."

"Work with?" John said, bewildered.

Jim stood, adjusting his tie with a small cough. "I'll let you talk it over, shall I?"

He slipped his hands into his pocket and strolled away to the counter, humming. Ben, Billy and John turned and stared at Marty.

"What the fuck is wrong with that fucker?" Billy spat.

Marty gritted his teeth. "He's not a fucker. He's got more brain power in one cell than you have in your whole body, shit for brains."

"I ain't having that wanker eat lunch with us every day!" Billy said, his eyes narrowed into slits. "He dresses like a pouf."

Marty slammed his fist down into the table so suddenly that they all jumped. "Shut up! Either he stays or you get the fuck out. You got it, fatarse?"

Billy glared at him but said nothing.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably, hoping to defuse some of the tension. "What did he mean by 'work with', Marty?"

Marty looked at him, his cheeks still burning. "Look. I'll tell you later," he said agitatedly. "He's got... He's just got an idea for some changes for the school, alright?"

"Changes for the school?" Ben said blankly. "Have you lost your fucking mind, Hester? Did you fall on your head or something over Christmas?"

Marty glowered at him and stuck a piece of pasta in his mouth, chewing it in a defiant manner. They stared over his shoulder to where Jim was on his phone again, one hand still buried in his pocket. John glanced sideways at Ben, who gave him his I-am-offended-by-this-amount-of-faggotry look.

When he rejoined them five minutes later, nobody had spoken. They all seemed stunned into silence. Stunned that such a change had taken place in Marty that he was inviting the very people he disdained into their circle.

"Did we all have a nice little chit-chat?" Jim said, pushing his uneaten lunch to one side.

Marty was still watching Billy with narrowed eyes and didn't reply. John watched him. There was definitely something wrong here.

"Whatever," Billy tossed his half-eaten sandwich onto his plate and screeched his chair back from the table. "This is bullshit."

He got up and walked away. The rest of lunch passed in uncomfortable silence. John barely tasted whatever he was sticking in his mouth and Marty didn't seem to be eating at all. Jim on the other hand seemed completely at ease. He had cut the remainder of his sandwich into squares and placed each one carefully into his mouth. At his elbow, Marty was staring down at his food, twisting the pasta around and around his fork without ever bringing it to his mouth.

"We better get to biology," Ben said at length, sending John a meaningful look. "Come on, John."

Jim looked between them but didn't speak. Marty just nodded.

"Come on," Ben said in a low voice, his fingers pinching the shoulder of John's school jumper.

John stumbled upright, feeling himself almost yanked completely out of his chair. "Bye then," he managed to say before he was dragged away by Ben's grip on his shirt.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Ben hissed furiously, as soon as they were out of ear shot.

"Which one of them?" John muttered.

Ben shook his head. "Marty's acting really weird, you know? There's something really fucked up about him."

"I dunno," John said. "Maybe he's just pissed about having to come back to school."

Ben dropped his shirt and turned to look at him with a dubious expression. "When Marty's pissed he swears, he punches walls, he abuses people. This isn't pissed, this is... this is just fucked up. And that Jim fag is behind it."

"He's fine," John said quickly. "You barely know him."

"You can't tell me you weren't getting a really weird vibe from that guy," Ben said stubbornly.

"Vibe?" John said, rolling his eyes and walking on. They were beginning to block up the corridor. "He seemed fine. Just... different."

"He wears a blazer," Ben said flatly.

"Rookie mistake," John replied with a dismissive shrug.

They turned the corner into the science block. John felt like the breath had been kicked out of him when he found himself walking towards Sherlock. He was behind a group of chattering year tens, his hands in his pockets and his eyes irritably fixed on the heads of the stragglers impeding his usual pace.

He didn't seem to notice John until he was almost level with him. He looked at him but no change came across his blank features. John knew he had gone extremely red, he could feel the blood rushing into his face. His body was pricking with heat. He seemed to have forgotten how to act naturally around him without going to pieces.

Mercilessly Ben was too preoccupied with Marty and Jim to notice anyone around him and they passed Sherlock without comment. John looked over his shoulder but Sherlock didn't look back.

John turned away, trying to ignore the pang in his chest. They were supposed to be ignoring each other. That was the point. Sherlock was just a lot better at it than he was.

But somehow it still stung John. After weeks of being the centre of Sherlock Holmes's world, it hurt to have to share him with a whole collection of people who didn't deserve to breathe the same air as him.

"Well, there's no fucking way that creep is getting on the football team," Ben said, folding his arms sullenly as they reached the door of biology classroom 201a.

"Does he really look like he's football material?" John said.

"They let you in, didn't they, stumpy?" Ben grinned.

"Fuck off." John elbowed him in the ribs.

John dropped his bag onto the rack, his heart sinking. Football. Well, it was bound to come up sooner or later. His friends' conversational skills were limited at the best of times. If Jim hadn't thrown a spanner in the works, lunch probably would have been one long dissection of football and the many possible outcomes of the season.

John knew that the loss was still burnt into the minds of his friends- and Principal Harvey. They hadn't spoken about it, but it would be there, niggling at the back of their minds. To John the humiliation of being bested was like a barely healed scar. The knowledge that he had been at the head of a losing team was more painful than he had imagined, the responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders.

"I dunno," he muttered, breaking the uneasy silence. "Maybe he's a better striker than he looks."

"If that nutter can kick a ball without breaking a nail or killing himself, I will give you my house," Ben mumbled, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

\--

Sherlock turned his phone back on at five. For two minutes it was like his hand had gone into a series of violent spasms as his phone vibrated in an almost continuous buzz. He gritted his teeth, glaring down at the screen.

"Eighty-five missed calls," he snarled, slamming it down onto his desk with too much force. "Fucking Mycroft."

He loosened his school tie and tore his jumper over his head, depositing both over his desk chair and plunging into the dishevelled sheets on his bed. He had really wanted to relax without Mycroft's being a shithead, but no such luck. The day had been long and occasional glimpses of John seemed only to make it worse. He couldn't touch him, he couldn't talk to him and whenever he saw him John went a violent shade of magenta that made him want to push him against the nearest wall it was so reminiscent of John's post-coital flush.

He gave a vague shiver and lent a hand gently over his crotch. He stroked himself a little, knowing it was likely to worsen his arousal than ease it but he was too comfortable on the bed with his hand gently palming the faint ache between his thighs to stop.

Even as he lay there, the image of Jim Moriarty came into his mind. He lifted his hand off his crotch, scowling at the ceiling. Every time he thought he had banished the episode in maths from his mind, it crept up on him again. He shouldn't have given a fuck, but he did. Moriarty was clever. But it wasn't just that. He was cleverer than him. That was the painful part.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed with an agitated growl. He didn't need his privacy invaded by the likes of Jim Moriarty. His only moments away from his classmates were precious and he didn't want to spend them agonizing over his possible inferiority to someone he didn't even know, who seemed to have formed an early taste for victimizing him in his quiet, self-satisfied way.

There was a quiet knock at his dorm door and he almost jumped out of his skin. "What?" he snapped.

There was silence and then another quiet, brief knock. Sherlock stood with a sigh and stalked across to open it. To his surprise he found himself face to face (well face to hair) with John. He stood back and John hastily slipped inside with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

"Hi," he said, resting against the door with a wry smile.

Sherlock watched him, trying to quell the desire to begin undressing him when his uniform was rumpled like it was from being worn all day. "Good first day back?"

John shrugged, pushing himself upright and wandering across to Sherlock's unmade bed. "Fine." He hesitated, glancing back at him. "Well... Fine."

"Well?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "Well, what?"

His mind immediately went to Marty Hester. He seemed to have been in a particularly foul mood that day. He'd seen him shove a kid extremely hard into a wall for not getting out of his way sufficiently fast enough in the hallway, something he usually reserved for the football field.

"You wouldn't care," John said, falling onto the bed and leaning against the wall. "It's stupid. It's just football rubbish."

"Try me," Sherlock said drily, sitting at his desk. He glanced darkly at his mobile. It hadn't gone off again since he'd turned it back on but he knew Mycroft wasn't the sort to give up.

"Well..." John started tentatively. "There's this new guy."

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock said coolly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

"Yeah," John said, looking sharply at him. "He's fine. I mean... There's nothing... overtly wrong with him. I just... He's-"

"Odd," Sherlock supplied.

"Yeah," John said in a deflated tone. "He's really good friends with Marty all of a sudden and when he came to sit with us at lunch he said some really weird stuff. I just don't... don't really get what's going on with them. And why is he coming here so late in the year? Where did he meet Marty?"

Sherlock twisted around to face him. "I wish I knew," he said.

They stared at each other in silence. John shrugged and slumped down onto his back.

"Maybe I'm reading too much into it," he said at length.

Sherlock stood and went over to the bed, staring down at John on his back. He propped one knee up onto the bed. "Look, maybe you shouldn't get too tangled up with Jim Moriarty," he said.

John strained to lift his head. "What?" He frowned.

Sherlock sat down next to him, battling with the overwhelming temptation to touch John's hair while he was watching him with such a serious expression. "Just be careful," Sherlock said cautiously.

John smiled, lifting up a hand and touching his mouth. "I'll be careful. Don't worry. I can take Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock caught his hand in his and pressed his lips to it, staring intently at John's face. "I missed you," he said quietly.

John tugged back his hand, sitting upright so their faces were inches apart. "We've only been apart one day," he said with a bashful grin.

Sherlock could feel his heart beginning to pump harder and harder in his chest. He leant forward and closed the space between them. He felt John's lips part in surprise against his.

"Sherlock..." John breathed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock pushed him gently down into the mattress, moving carefully on top of him and sliding a knee between John's thighs. John's body was warm and his uniform formed a soft layer of rough acrylic between them.

John broke away, gasping and blinking up at him. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John's hair. "See? I told you we'd get through it," he said softly.

John nodded, lowering his eyelids partly. "One measly day."

"It'll get easier," Sherlock said. He pressed another kiss to John's lips and then moved lower down John's jaw to the curve of his throat.

"I don't want being away from you to get easier," John mumbled, closing his eyes with a shiver as Sherlock's mouth tightened on his neck.

John's hands were still wrapped around his shoulders and John's neck was damp and hot from his kiss. John's grip on his back tightened with a breathless: "Sherlock..."

Sherlock lifted his head and pressed his lips firmly against John's, sliding a hand under him to grip his waist and pull him tighter against him. John spread his legs wider and Sherlock had to bite back a moan as his crotch was pinned unexpectedly against his. There was already a telling bump between John's legs. He slid a hand down and pressed his palm against it. John rolled against him with a strained groan, rubbing himself forcefully against Sherlock's palm.

From outside the room they heard a sudden explosion of heavy footsteps as a mob of students thundered past the door. They hesitated in the middle of their ministrations.

"Is the...?" John began.

"Yes, it's locked," Sherlock said, staring at John's flushed face with satisfaction.

"Not so daring when it's broad daylight, are you?" John teased, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock silenced him with his mouth and returned to fondling John with purpose through the thin material of his school trousers. He moved his hands under John's jumper and rolled it up his torso. John raised his arms, though he sent him a dubious look as Sherlock peeled it off of him.

"You're not honestly suggesting we fuck at this time of the day, are you?" he hissed, biting his lip when Sherlock ran his hands under his untucked school shirt.

"Night will be too risky," Sherlock replied with a grunt. "It'll be too quiet. Someone will hear us."

Sherlock began to undo the buttons on John's trousers, knowing he was grazing his erection with every movement. John threw his head back. There were red welts where Sherlock's mouth had been on his throat. Something he thought best not to mention to John.

"Now?" John almost squeaked. "Oh, God. Sherlock, are you insane?"

Sherlock gave a resolute tug at John's trousers. "Ok. I'll sweeten the deal. How about you take me this time?"

John stared at him and looked, if possible, even more horrified. "W-what- I-"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, sitting back on his heels on the bed. "Don't tell me you don't want to?"

John blushed, backing up on the bed a few inches and clamping his hands around his trousers, as though he didn't trust that Sherlock wouldn't attempt to ravish him. "I'm not... ready."

Sherlock stared at him. "You're not ready?"

"I'm not ready!" John snapped, stumbling off the bed and clumsily buttoning his trousers.

Sherlock watched him, exhaling exasperatedly. "You're happy to be sodomized-"

"It is not sodomy," John snapped, turning irritably to him. "We make love."

"I make love to you," Sherlock corrected him. "Don't you want to make love to me?"

He saw John's features visibly twitch. He raised his eyes to the ceiling with a huff. "Of course I want to. But why do you always have to demand more and more and more? I want to go slowly."

"Slowly is dull," Sherlock groaned, resting his head against the wall. "Slowly is for people with no imagination."

He glanced at John and found him watching him with a very narrow expression. "I have no imagination?" he said flatly.

"You have some when you really put your mind to it," Sherlock said, enjoying teasing John when it made him go increasingly splotchy all over his face. "You know you want to fuck me. You've been fantasizing about it for weeks. Touching yourself, putting your hand tight over your cock, imagining what it'd be like to feel me around you, feel me orgasm when you're inside of me-"

"Shut up!" John burst out, throwing his hands into his hair and agitatedly turning away. He was furiously red.

Sherlock smirked. "Or am I mistaken?"

John sent him a dirty look and stomped away to the window with his arms sullenly folded. "You get off on mind games."

"You know I'm right," Sherlock said impatiently, staring down at the erection still straining against his trousers.

"Can't you just be satisfied with the arrangement we have now?" John said, in an almost whining tone. He turned to him with his arms still folded. "At least for a while?"

He walked back across and knelt in front of Sherlock on the bed. He licked his lips to dampen them, sending almost overwhelming amounts of heat to Sherlock's crotch as he watched him. John leant forward heavily on his palms so his mouth was a bare inch from Sherlock's.

"Of course we could always wait until I'm ready," John said in a low voice. "But you know... that could take weeks, even months-"

Sherlock made a frustrated sound and dragged John forcefully onto his hips. John let out a helpless gasp as Sherlock's hands moved over his clothes, tugging impatiently at his shirt buttons. Their mouths moved so fiercely over each other that it was almost like they hadn't kissed for weeks. John's hands were tangled deeply in his hair and his thighs were tight around his.

"You're nothing but a tease," he panted between mashing his mouth ferociously against John.

John gave him a flushed, bleary grin. Sherlock tugged his shirt off; hardly conscious of what he was doing with his hands when his face was so close to John's.

He could hear everything from outside. The students in the hallway, the sound of the people in the next room, the distant sound of the TV in the common room, voices and footsteps and noise everywhere. No one in the entire school knew that he and John Watson were about to fuck, right under the very noses of the people who strove to keep them apart. It gave him a delicious and almost dizzying high to know that he was defying every single one of them on their own wretched turf.

In a flurry of blind, fevered movement he somehow managed to get John out of his trousers- or at least get them down to his knees and found himself face to face with the grey briefs he couldn't quite seem to escape. He grinned, reaching a hand down and hooking a finger inside the band. John's hazy eyes fluttered.

"My old friend," Sherlock said, eyes glinting.

John went even more furiously red and gave him a gentle shove. "Shut up and fuck me."

"My pleasure," Sherlock said, suppressing a violent shudder. John straightened up and tugged his underwear down his thighs.

Sherlock sucked in his breath at the sight of John's cock straining away from his body, the tip red and already seeping pre-cum. He slipped a hand around it, caressing it hard against his palm.

John gripped his shoulders with a taut moan. "Oh, God... Sherlock..." he said breathlessly.

Sherlock struggled off the bed, hardly able to walk with the pressure between his legs and the pins and needles from having his legs curled up on the bed. He hobbled over to the dresser and tugged the top drawer open. He'd stuffed the condoms and lube in there until he found a better hiding place. Condoms in a sock drawer screamed 'amateur' in Sherlock's opinion.

Pressing the condom into his mouth, he undressed himself as well as he could one-handed on his way back to the bed. John was still on his knees, the grey briefs wrapped around his thighs and his school shirt unbuttoned down to his navel.

Sherlock put the condom on while he watched, careful to do it as slowly as he could so John could enjoy the sight like he always did. He loved the expression on John's face while he rolled it onto himself, the barely contained expression of desperation and arousal as he took in Sherlock's length and Sherlock's fingers so close to touching himself.

He was panting and glistening all over with perspiration. His nipples were very dark and very hard. The hairs on his arms were standing on end, it was almost like every inch of him was straining for Sherlock, every inch of him was hopelessly aroused.

Sherlock rested one knee on the bed, tilting the lube bottle upside down and letting some of the gel ooze onto his fingers. John watched with widened eyes as he rubbed the gel between his fingers.

"Spread for me," he said softly.

John lay on his back and slowly parted his legs. Sherlock touched the inside of his thigh and then gently touched John's pink, puckered entrance. John shivered and gripped the covers tightly but didn't complain. Sherlock gently pressed his finger inside. John gave a sharp writhe on the bed.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said, pushing in a second finger.

John nodded, between choked breaths. "F-fine. I'm fine," he panted.

Sherlock smiled to himself. He extracted his fingers and pulled John upright. John blinked at him dazedly, his hair was sticking up and he looked delectable. Sherlock dampened his lips and slid his hands around John's partly-clothed waist. He pulled him onto his lap. Their cocks touched and they moaned in unison. John clutched Sherlock's waist, his palms were damp and warm against Sherlock's skin.

He lowered himself slowly onto Sherlock's sex. Sherlock resisted the urge to force himself harder and rougher into him and let John go at his own pace. When he was deep inside of him, Sherlock buried his face into John's hair.

"Uh... Oh, God," John groaned into his shoulder, his breath hot against him. "F-fuck me, Sherlock. Harder."

Sherlock did as he was told. John moved rougher and harder against him with every thrust. His fingers curled into his skin, it would have hurt if Sherlock hadn't been blinded by the utter pleasure. John's limbs were wrapped around him like vines and he was moving at an almost reckless pace.

"John... Oh God, John..." Sherlock threw his head back with a moan as a surge of pressure jolted from what felt like his nipples to the aching tip of his cock.

John whimpered, his hands slipping on Sherlock's damp skin as he rocked feverishly against Sherlock's lap. They had never fucked so roughly. Sherlock felt engulfed in damp, hot friction and Sherlock's cock was throbbing with an almost painful level of arousal.

The sounds from the surrounding rooms and the corridor had become little more than white noise in the background. Sherlock knew there was little chance of their being overheard amongst the cacophony outside but he was conscious of every moan or cry that left his mouth.

"Sherlock..." John gasped. "I'm... I'm going to..."

His breathing was almost frantic. Sherlock forced him back a few inches so he could see his face.

"Come... come for me," he breathed, desperately trying to focus on John's face.

John moaned and bit his lip. He closed his eyes with an expression that almost sent Sherlock completely over the edge. It was an expression of nothing short of complete anguish. If Sherlock had seen it on the face of any other person at that moment he would have assumed it was the look of someone in extreme pain.

John cried out so loudly that a flicker of alarm went through Sherlock's lust drunken mind, but it was quickly extinguished the next moment when he felt John give a violent spasm against him as he came. John spent himself all over Sherlock's school shirt.

With a much more contained growl than John, Sherlock soon followed and thrust his hips as he orgasmed inside of him. He rode his orgasm out, feeling his seed dribble down between John's thighs.

Neither of them moved. Sherlock felt like he had been fused to John by a sticky mixture of sweat and semen. John was breathing haggardly into his shoulder, his hair gloriously dishevelled.

They could hear someone hitting a tennis ball against the wall outside of the door. It was unearthly and almost unbelievable to Sherlock that people could be so close to them and yet so oblivious to what they had just done. He almost pitied them for not having what he had.

By and by, they peeled themselves apart. Sherlock gently pulled out of John and went across to the waste paper basket to dispose of the used condom. John laid flat on his back on the covers, still only dressed in his school shirt, with his underwear around his knees.

Sherlock glanced down at his ruined shirt. "Look at the mess you've made all over my uniform."

John tilted his head towards him, his eyes still hazy. "Principal Harvey would be very unimpressed," he said hoarsely.

Sherlock fished out a clean shirt from his drawer. "Do you realise we're probably the first two boys ever to fuck in Redverse?" he said, buttoning it and snatching his underwear off the floor.

"I dunno," John said, staring at the ceiling. "There were probably some repressed Victorians doing it in this room in the 1890s. They probably haven't bought new bed stands since then."

Sherlock dug his trousers and underwear out from the confused tangle of blankets and John's body on the bed. "Don't compare us to repressed Victorians, it's depressing."

"You know we're lucky we're not one of those technologically advanced schools that have CCTV everywhere," John said drowsily. "Or we'd be in serious shit."

Sherlock knelt over him with a smirk. "But I'd say from the way you screamed like a girl it was worth it?"

John irritably opened one eye at him. "Your humility and tact astounds as always."

Sherlock's smirk widened. He lay down beside him on the bed. John was sticky and damp, but he didn't mind. "I live to give, John."

\--

When John got to the common room (after taking a shower and changing his clothes) he seemed to enter into a war zone. On one side Marty, being barely held back by three or four other boys was viciously trying to throw himself at Billy, who's far more liberal form was being dragged backwards by what looked like a small mob of bodies.

There was so much noise that John could hardly hear his own voice over the screaming of about fifty others. "Hey!" he bawled. "Hey! What the fucking hell is going on!"

He stared around the onlookers and spotted Jim Moriarty leaning against the nearest wall with his arms folded, looking perfectly unmoved by the mayhem. John stared at him and then looked back at the two struggling boys. Marty was sporting a cut over his eyebrow.

"John," said a hoarse voice in his ear. A hand gripped his elbow.

"Ben," he said, looking at him in alarm. "What the hell is going on?"

He shook his head. "They went insane. I've never seen Billy so pissed off. I thought he was going to kill Marty." He gave an uncertain laugh.

John shook his head and took a step towards them. "Guys!" he shouted. "Guys, stop it!"

He stood in front of Marty, trying fruitlessly to get his attention away from Billy. Marty was struggling violently against the hands on his arms and shoulders. "You cunt!" he was screaming at Billy. "I'll fucking kill you! You hear me!"

John sighed, massaging his temple with a hand. "Marty, can you calm the fuck down for two seconds? What happened?"

He looked at the boys holding onto him. They shook their heads, still looking vaguely shell-shocked.

Marty stopped struggling so abruptly that they almost lost their balance. His eyes were little more than slits fixed on Billy, there were red welts on his arms from where hands had been gripping him.

"That fucker attacked me," he spat.

"Why?" John said.

"Because he's a filthy cocksucker!" Marty hollered at him.

John rolled his eyes and looked at Ben. Ben shrugged at him. He went back over to him. "What happened?"

Ben looked sheepish. "Well... Jim... Marty..." He looked quickly over his shoulder to where Jim was standing, still calmly watching on. "Apparently Jim's been put in Marty's room."

"But you're in Marty's room," John said blankly.

"Yeah, so I'll have to move," Ben said in a taut voice.

A cold wave went through John. "Move where?" he said numbly.

Ben looked at him. "Guess."

John ran a hand through his hair, staring at Marty in disbelief. "Sherlock's."

Ben looked quickly at him. "We're on first name terms now with the freak?"

John didn't bother correcting himself. "Why can't you just have your own room?"

"You think Harvey would go for that?" Ben said dubiously. "Marty was the one who suggested it in the first place."

John stared at him in disbelief, almost feeling ready to run at Marty himself. "Why would he do that?"

Ben shrugged and glanced over his shoulder again to where Jim was. "Who knows?"

Two minutes later Mr. Blake arrived and broke up the mob. "Hester! Pip! What is going on here? Let go of him!" he snapped, shoving his way through the crowd around Marty. "What is the meaning of this!"

John shook his head, as the crowd dispersed around Blake. He could see Billy fighting his way through the mass of people to get to Marty, cutting a swath through the sea of bodies. "Why is Billy trying to kill him?" he asked Ben, as they retreated out to the corridor.

Ben shrugged. "He's sick of Marty acting like a fucking douchebag."

They watched as the crowd of onlookers began to rush through the doors and flood the corridor. Billy came out a few minutes later, shoving people out of the way and looking like he was ready to kill someone.

Jim was unlucky enough to be in his path on his way out and was given an unceremonious thrust into the wall. One of Billy's wide hands pinned him where he was. Jim didn't struggle. He watched him without a flicker of indignation or fear.

"You better watch your back, you little fucker," he growled, his hand twisting around the material of Jim's blazer.

"Hey! Billy!" Ben shouted, trying to yank him off. "Give it a rest, will you?"

John knew better than trying to physically move Billy. He tugged Ben back by his shirt. "Just leave it, Billy. What's done is done. Ben doesn't mind. Do you, Ben?" He looked meaningfully at Ben. He knew he minded very much so, but he was hoping that he could put his hatred of Sherlock aside for at least a minute.

Ben rolled his eyes at him behind Billy's head but didn't contradict him. "Yeah. It's fine. He's not that... bad..." It seemed to take every ounce of willpower to get those words out, and even then it was said with the same expression he'd have if he had just eaten soap.

"As much as I am enjoying this little... insight into the minds of England's next welfare cheats, I wouldn't mind having my blazer back now if you don't mind," Jim said in a bored voice. "It's new."

Billy gave a low growl and seemed ready to strangle him. To John's surprise he let go of him and turned away. "Whatever."

He stomped away down the corridor, leaving Ben and John to stare at Jim in silence. Jim smoothed down his blazer, ironing out the kinks Billy's fist had left in it. He was still watching Billy as he retreated.

"He's not usually that... ah..." Ben struggled for a word.

"You just caught him on a bad day," John said lamely.

Jim looked at them with a blank expression, as though he had just noticed their presence. "I'm sure he'll warm to me," he said, with a smile that made John a little uneasy.

He straightened up from the wall. "So, ah... Sherlock Holmes."

John jerked before he could stop himself. Jim's eyes settled sharply on him. John felt his cheeks flush. The way Jim looked at him; it was like he knew what John had just been doing. Like he could see some incriminating evidence on John's clothes that he'd overlooked.

"You know him?" Jim said, raising a thin eyebrow.

"Everyone knows him," Ben said, folding his arms. "He's... famous." He gave a snort.

Jim raised a second eyebrow, still looking at John uncomfortably closely. John fidgeted, feeling heat beginning to creep up his neck. "Famous?" He seemed to be asking John the question.

John shrugged, his eyes flickering away from his. "I'm surprised Harvey didn't stick you in with him," Ben said, sounding slightly resentful of the fact.

"It is surprising, isn't it?" Jim said, straightening his tie. "Well, I'd best go and make up with Billy. Can't have any little cracks in the team, can we?"

Ben and John watched him stroll away down the corridor. "He's so weird," Ben said. "He might actually be weirder than Holmes."

John got the feeling he was only saying that to comfort himself over the fact that soon his every move would be under the scrutiny of Sherlock's grey eyes. John's heart sunk. He had forgotten about that little detail.

"Yeah," he said absently, staring after him. "I guess."

When he got back to his room, Billy was nowhere to be found but his bed was neatly made, which was strangely out of character for him. Well, as neatly made as Billy's bed was ever likely to be. There were still clothes strewn across it and a sticky, empty bottle of ginger beer lying idly next to one of the pillows.

John sat for a while in silence. He felt strange. An hour ago he and Sherlock had been having sex and now he was alone and they probably wouldn't be able to touch each other for another whole day. His stomach seemed to give a protesting ache at the thought.

He walked across to his desk and opened the top drawer. A corner of the medical school application form was sticking out from under his school books. He closed it again and turned away. He had managed to banish it from his mind for almost the entire day. Now, as soon as he was alone, it started niggling at him again. Sherlock had been conspicuously quiet on the issue of medical school when they'd been together. He didn't want to force the issue. He didn't want to frighten him off. John knew what he was doing, but he appreciated it. On one hand, it would be easier to reject the idea of medical school if he could blame it on Sherlock nagging him but on the other hand he didn't need the extra stress on top of everything else.

A voice in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock's, kept asserting that he wanted it and he knew he wanted it. He was just too frightened that he'd fail in the pursuit of it.

He sunk down in his desk chair and buried his head in his hands. The worst thing about it was that the voice was right. Sherlock knew him better than he knew himself. He always did.

\--

Scowling, Sherlock went through his phone inbox. Mycroft had flooded it. He had at least fifty "Call me, you idiot"s and at least twenty "Would you please answer my calls and stop being so immature?"s. Sherlock took pleasure in deleting each and every one.

The venom he felt towards his brother for what he had done was marred ever so slightly by a niggling curiosity. He couldn't imagine what his brother could have to say that was so important, so necessary that he would risk Sherlock thinking he was trying to apologise.

He dropped his phone onto the covers, rubbing a hand through his hair. He didn't know how long his brother would keep harassing him; he didn't know how long he could ignore it. Sinking into the covers, he stroked his hand down the place John had been laying just hours beforehand.

He'd heard the chaos outside but hadn't ventured out to investigate. He knew in his heart that it had had something to do with Jim Moriarty. He didn't know how but there was something about the newcomer that made him deeply uneasy. He knew that if he said this to anyone, John included, they'd just accuse him of being jealous because Jim was the first person who had ever come close to rivalling him intellectually. Maybe he was jealous. But that didn't change the feeling in his gut.

The only thing he could thank Jim for was distracting John sufficiently from the play. He hadn't mentioned it and seemed to have forgotten about it, which gave Sherlock at least until English class that day to think of an excuse for why he had kept it from him all Christmas.

He flopped down onto his back with a sigh. Everything in the dorms was very quiet. John hadn't texted him all night. Sherlock had considered texting him but he didn't want him to think he couldn't go one night without him. Also, they had to be careful. They couldn't just text each other whenever they wanted now. If they were in the wrong place at the wrong time it could mean the end of everything.

Outside there was a loud slam. It sounded like one of the doors further down the corridor had been thrown open against the wall. Sherlock sat upright. One slam was followed by a second slam, until it sounded like there was a chorus of doors being thrown open. It was soon joined by a rising crescendo of voices and footsteps.

Sherlock stared at the door. He tossed up whether to go or stay. One of the boys had probably just thrown up in his bed or something.

It wasn't until he heard Blake's whistle blasting up the hallway that he threw his legs over the side of the bed and went for the door. Outside there were at least fifty boys out of their rooms, talking excitedly amongst themselves and straining to get a better look at where the madness was concentrated. Sherlock stared down to where the seeming eye of the storm was. He could see Blake's balding crown about twenty feet away, still blowing the whistle at the top of his lungs and bawling: "Get out of the way! Stand back! Get back to your rooms this instance!"

The thickest throng of people were ringed around the room three or four doors down from his. Sherlock realised with a cold jolt that it was John's room. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he shoved the boys nearest to him out of his way. He elbowed his way up to the crowd around number 18. The door was thrown open.

As he got nearer he could hear a terrible sound. The sound of someone screaming in what sounded like agony. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He struggled through the thickest part of the crowd.

"Oh God, John," he heard himself breathe without meaning to. Everyone was too distracted to notice him anyway.

He flung himself towards the door and felt almost weak with relief when he found John flattened against the doorframe, his face incredibly pale and damp. Sherlock came so close to touching him, he had to curl his fists to keep from acting on the temptation. John stared at him with wide eyes, hardly seeming to register who he was.

Sherlock looked past him to the bedroom. Blake was knelt down by the writhing and moaning form of Billy Pip. Sherlock's breath seemed to leave his body. Blake was on his phone.

"I need an ambulance," he was saying in a clipped voice. "A boy's been hurt. Redverse School on Thomas Street."

Sherlock stared at Billy's bed. The covers were in an untidy pile at the bottom of the bed. The mattress was positively crawling with ants. Large ants with reddish looking heads. They looked poisonous.

Billy was covered in angry looking welts; on his face, on his arms, on his legs. Sherlock could hardly look away. The sight had paralysed him.

"Someone get Principal Harvey!" Blake barked, twisting around to look at them and shoving the phone back in his shirt pocket. "You! Holmes! Go now."

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel. He passed John and felt his arm graze against his. He would have done anything to be able to do something more but he didn't dare. He just hoped John had felt it and knew what it meant.

He forced his way back through the crowd. There seemed to be more boys than when he had first come down. But as he walked further down the corridor the mob thinned. He was near the stairs when he spotted a lone figure well removed from the bulk of the excitement.

"What are you doing?" he said, stopping short at him.

Jim smiled at him. He was still dressed in his uniform. His hair was so pristine, it didn't look like he had lain down all night. Perhaps that was why he was so pale and had such dark circles under his eyes.

"Enjoying the show," he replied, his expression was difficult to see in the poor light. "Where are you scurrying off to?"

"I have to get the principal," Sherlock said curtly, turning away.

Jim scoffed. "That senile imbecile? What's he going to do? Help with the cover up?"

Sherlock stopped short on the stairs. "What do you mean cover up?"

"A nest of fire ants don't find their way into someone's bed by accident," Jim said. He straightened up from the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock watched him, narrowing his eyes. "How do you know what happened?"

A smirk crept onto Jim's face, it seemed to begin at the corners of his mouth and then spread across his entire mouth. "Very clever, Sherlock. I was beginning to be worried that everything I'd heard about you was hype."

"Hype? What are you talking about?" Sherlock snapped.

Jim's smirk widened. Sherlock tried to suppress a shiver. Jim took a step towards him, the light fell over his face and Sherlock could see his eyes. "You better run along to Principal Harvey, Sherlock. We can talk in the morning."

Sherlock watched him in silence. Jim turned on his heel and walked away down the dimly lit corridor back towards the bulk of the crowd.

_End of Chapter Twenty-One_


	22. Chapter 22

It was freezing. John had forgotten how little coverage the school's football uniform really provided. He felt bizarrely exposed as he walked down across the crunching sea of gravel from the doors of the school to the steps leading down to the vast, soggy playing field. It had been raining steadily since they'd been back at school, as though to add a further layer of gloom to the entire establishment.

As though it needed anything to dampen the already melancholic cloud that was hanging low over every corridor and classroom. The teachers seemed to feel it, seemed to know that something over Christmas had sapped their students of their usual boisterous tactlessness.

Or so it seemed to John. There was something dazed about his team, like they had been put through some form of cruel and unusual punishment and were still recovering from the shock. He had a feeling that it had something to with Billy's unfortunate experience with the fire ants.

He shivered inside the thin confines of his football shirt. Sherlock looked at him. "Are you cold?"

They were huddled close at the top of the stairs. Sherlock's pale, slender, cold hand was wrapped in his. They knew they couldn't stay like this for very much longer. The team would be turning up at any second, but Sherlock said he'd probably stay. John was glad he'd offered to stay, because he didn't think he'd be able to bring himself to ask.

"Do you think Billy will be ok?" he asked hesitantly. Sherlock had been very silent about the events of that night and John got the feeling that he didn't want to speak about it.

Sherlock looked down at him, his cheeks flushed with the cold. "He'll be fine. He's lucky he isn't allergic. Those things can kill a-"

He broke off, clearly realising that he wasn't saying the right thing.

He cleared his throat, patting John's hand awkwardly. "He'll be fine."

John couldn't allow himself to think about it too much. His mind seemed unable to rid itself of the sight of Billy being swarmed by a seething mass of seemingly endless orange-headed, black-bodied little creatures. John had taken to lifting up the mattress of his bed every night before he got into it. He was glad that Sherlock didn't see how he crept around his own room, with his arms wrapped around himself, barely daring to touch anything until he had more or less coated his belongings in insect spray. He couldn't get shake the feeling that somewhere, under something was another swarm of fire ants. It made his skin crawl.

"You really need to stop worrying," Sherlock said, astute as always at immediately knowing when John was even slightly ill at ease. "It was just a prank."

John looked at him incredulously. "You don't really believe that do you? He was in serious pain."

"You can't tell me that not a teensy, weensy little part of you didn't think that Billy... well, sort of deserved it?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows wryly.

John frowned at him. "Nobody deserves that, Sherlock."

He knew he sounded like the spokesperson for a sensible drinking campaign, but he didn't care. Nobody  _did_  deserve that. Billy hadn't killed anyone, hadn't committed some hideous crime. And even if he had, who were they to dispense justice?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, with a half-shrug. He untangled himself from John's arms. John reluctantly let him, though he immediately missed the warm weight. "Why don't we talk about something else," he said, eyeing John critically. "Like football. Let's talk about football."

"I don't want to talk about football," John said, narrowing his eyes. He walked past him to the edge of the steps, staring down at the sodden grass below. The shallow puddle in the right goal had filled up with water again. "If there is one thing I do not want to talk about, it's football."

"Then let's talk about how you insist on putting yourself through this torture when you know that you'd be infinitely happier if you just let it go," Sherlock said, undeterred from behind him. "You hate it."

John turned. Sherlock was watching him with a sharp expression, his arms firmly folded. "I don't hate it." It was probably the stupidest lie he had ever told.

"I don't know why you do this to yourself," Sherlock said, sounding infuriatingly like a hospital ward matron whose patient insisted on slamming their head repeatedly against a wall.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, partly just to annoy him. "Look. I better get down there. They'll probably be here soon."

Sherlock shrugged. He patted his trouser pocket where John knew he had his cigarettes hidden. He would probably sit behind some trees in the field smoking fag after fag. John, no matter how attractive he found Sherlock's alluring bad habit, never got the temptation to try one. He didn't like the idea of something having power over him, though he got the feeling that nothing had power over Sherlock. He could have quit any time he wanted to; he just didn't want to.

"Well. I guess I'll go for a walk or something," Sherlock said. They walked down the steps to the edge of the playing field. John felt an overwhelming desire to just follow Sherlock to the furthest edge of the grounds and stay there, far away from prying eyes but he knew he couldn't.

They said a wordless goodbye and began across the field, water oozing through his football boots. There seemed to be a shallow, unseen sea covering the greater part of the grass.

He squelched across to centre of the pitch. He could see Sherlock's pale figure wandering along the far edge of the grounds, his hands buried in his pockets. He had a feeling that Sherlock needed time to think. He had been very quiet the past few days since the Billy incident. He spoke very little about it, but John got the overwhelming feeling that he was thinking about it unceasingly. John wished he knew why.

He shivered inside his uniform, wrapping his arms around himself in a fruitless attempt to protect his bare skin. He supposed he would be the same if Sherlock had been in the same situation he had been in. Sherlock had grazed against him on his way to get Harvey. It had been his silent way of comforting John. John had needed him. He'd never seen anything so gruesome in his life. All he could think of doing was getting out, away from the scene. He claimed he had run to get Blake- which was not an absolute lie, but his motive had not been so honourable. He had just needed to get away.

He sighed to himself and looked back over to where Sherlock had been. He was gone. Melted into the trees surrounding the Redverse grounds. He was fairly apt at hiding himself.

He looked up towards the stairs. The team had finally appeared, looking like a procession of black and red clad militia from where John stood. Or a firing squad. He shuffled his feet in the soggy grass.

Ben was the first to arrive. He still hadn't forgiven Marty for kicking him out of his room. He hadn't moved in with Sherlock yet, but John knew it would be any day now. He couldn't help feeling a foolish twinge of jealousy. It seemed unjust that Ben got to slip so effortlessly into Sherlock's sphere and John was barred from it. He had agonized over whether to offer to take Ben's place, but he knew it would be too suspicious. Too inexplicably selfless to be innocent.

"Hey," Ben said, dropping the football into the grass and causing a small explosion of mud onto their legs.

"Hi," John said, looking over his shoulder to the rest of the team. Billy wasn't there of course. He was still at home recovering. It was strange how small the team looked without Billy's hulking mass towering over the rest.

Marty was bringing up the rear, looking ashen faced as he always did these days. Nobody knew what to make of him anymore. His melancholy seemed to dampen everything around him and was one of the main reasons John thought Redverse seemed so grey these days. John never thought he'd miss Marty's loud, crude voice, but without it Redverse seemed unearthly silent.

"What are we going to do about Billy?" one of the boys asked sullenly.

"We'll have to use sub," John replied, looking along the line of his grave team. "Billy might be alright. You never know."

"Yeah right," Ben said. "He got owned by like three thousand poisonous ants." A few of the boys went vaguely green at the thought. "He won't be able to play for weeks."

"We'll have to do the best we can without him," John said, fiddling with the whistle around his neck. "We've been down players before. Look, we had a hiccup last year and now we've lost Billy but that doesn't mean the comp is over."

There were half-hearted mumbles of agreement. John put his hands on his hips, fixing them with what he hoped was his most authoritarian stare.

"Well, if you're all so concerned about our playing future, you better hurry up and give me five laps."

John joined them. Partly because he wanted the burning in his legs to distract him from the uneasy sense that something weird was going on. Something that he couldn't put his finger on. Ben jogged alongside him. With Marty acting so strangely and Billy away, Ben had no one else to hang around with so he stuck increasingly closely to John. He had always been the least obnoxious of his friends, so John didn't mind.

"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Ben said in a low voice, as they jogged some distance behind the rest of the team. John was very used to the comments about his "short legs" by now and didn't attempt to strain himself to keep up with his taller team mates.

"What does?" he replied, scanning the trees Sherlock had disappeared into as they passed them.

"Being back." Ben wiped a layer of sweat from his top lip. "Feels weird. Marty... ya' know. Shit's different."

John got the feeling he wanted to talk about it somewhat deeper than that, but was concerned John might balk at the thought of anything approaching intelligent conversation. "Yeah. Marty's definitely undergone a rapid transformation."

"Yeah," Ben said, looking quickly at him. "Do you think it's because of that Jim dick?"

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ever since Jim had arrived, the team had collectively decided they didn't like him. They seemed to find him intensely intimidating, especially his closeness to Marty. Personally, John didn't see it. Though there was certainly something... odd about him, John didn't think he was any Marty Hester.

"You can't keep blaming Jim for every little thing that happens to occur," John replied. "Just because you don't like him."

"Who said I don't like him?" Ben retorted.

"You just called him a dick," John pointed out, starting to pant between words.

"Because... he is a dick," Ben puffed. The muddy grass was horrible to run in. John could feel it squelching around in his boots. "But that doesn't mean I don't like him. Marty's a dick too, and I like him fine."

"Except for when he kicks you out of your own room for some kid we've never even spoken to," John quipped. They came to a halt where the rest of the team were congregated in the middle of the swampy pitch.

"When you're ready, form a line," John said, mechanically looking along the trees behind them. "Ben will be goalie."

"More penalty practice?" Marty remarked, making everyone jump at the sound of his increasingly seldom heard voice. "What's the point?"

"It's just as important as any other aspect of the game," John replied, looking at him. "What would you suggest then, Marty?" he added, when nobody spoke to back him up.

"Anything would be better than this," Marty drawled, folding his arms.

John felt a pang of unease, but pushed it away with a roll of his eyes. "And when you're captain, you can decide what we do in practice. Until then, shut up and get in line."

For a moment, he thought Marty was going to argue. He opened his mouth, his blue eyes contemptuously narrowed, but then closed it again with a sulky shrug. Ben glanced at him from his place in the line. John pretended not to see; he didn't need Ben's "told you so" look to know that Marty was definitely acting odd.

Past the heads of his teammates something moving caught his eye. He stared past them to where Sherlock was wandering along the edge of the field, blending in almost seamlessly with the pallid surroundings.

He was not walking alone. John knew, even from two hundred yards away, who he was with.

After practice, the team bypassed showers, preferring to go straight to dinner. For almost the first time in his life, John went with them. He felt filthy and caked with dirt but he was struck by overwhelming curiosity.

The team's table was always a messy affair at dinner, but John had forgotten just how boisterous his teammates could be. In between ducking out of the way of carrot missiles and trying to tune out the lewd talk of various women's body parts, he could just manage a few clear glimpses of Sherlock. He was at his usual table. And he was alone.

John felt a guilty release of relief. He had no right to be relieved, but he was.

"I forgot how fun dinnertime with team is," he mumbled, flicking a carrot out of his spaghetti.

Ben grinned at him from opposite; he had bits of potato in his hair. "It's one hell of a party, huh."

Even without Marty's contributions, the team managed to sustain a fairly hearty, obscene stream of conversation. Marty was silently eating his pasta, with an expression that wordlessly suggested what fate would befall the boy careless enough to aim a food missile in his direction.

After dinner, John slipped away from the team, hoping to steal a couple of hours alone before he was missed. The dorms was almost deserted during dinner. John always felt odd walking the dimly lit corridors by himself. There was something eerie about the endless labyrinth of grey doors and blue carpet.

His heart seemed liable to stop beating where he stood when a hand came into contact with his shoulder, as he was turning into the Grade 12s' corridor.

"Fuck, Marty," he gasped, putting a hand to his chest. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," Marty said, holding out his hand. "You left this in the common room."

John stared at it. It was a mobile phone, but it wasn't his. "Oh," he said, frowning. "That's no-"

He broke off. Realisation trickled through him like a chill. It was Sherlock's phone. He snatched it out of Marty's hand, for a moment too panicked to think about what he was doing.

"Thanks," he said hastily, stuffing it into his pocket. He met Marty's eye with difficulty, his heart still beating furiously hard.

"No problem," Marty said offhandedly, not looking at him. He was still in his football uniform and smelt overwhelmingly of deodorant.

John stared up at him. It was sometimes odd to him that he had never had any erotic stirrings for Marty. He was good looking. In an arrogant douchebag sort of way.

John gave himself a mental shake. He could just imagine what Marty would do to him if he knew that he was standing there wondering why he'd never wanted to have sex with him. John squirmed where he was. That image made him feel slightly ill. "Well, thanks. I better... ah, go."

He took a step back. Marty looked at him. "Ok. See ya, golden boy." It was the first time he had used his nickname for John in a long while. John secretly hoped that it was a sign that he was becoming his old self again. But that hope was immediately when Marty went on to say, in an stiff and slightly mechanical way: "Be careful with that. Shouldn't leave it lying around."

He nodded at the pocket John had shoved Sherlock's phone inside. John didn't reply. He watched Marty until he was out of sight and then dove into his room, hastily turning Sherlock's phone on.

He had never used it before and it took a few attempts to figure out how to unlock it. When he did, he was immediately confronted by a small box demanding a four numbered code. John breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way Marty could have got in there.

He sunk down on his bed, relief rushing into every limb. The thought that Marty had had this in his hand, had had virtually John's and Sherlock's entire relationship within this one, small vessel made him almost sick to his stomach.

"Oh God," he said, resting his head in his hands. "The fucking photos..."

He could just imagine his friends' faces if they ever saw their indomitable captain in that state. He could almost feel the blows while he sat there.

\--

"Don't be so fast to run away, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's skin crawled at the sound of the melodic voice. He tried to fasten his pace but the undergrowth was sodden and his school shoes weren't the most practical footwear for marching through the wilderness.

"What. Are you stalking me now, Jim?" he snarled, furiously shaking the leaves out of his hair.

He came to a halt in front of a huge, boggy puddle. He heard Jim come to a halt behind him. He smelt like a medicine cabinet. It was wildly out of place against the cold, fresh scent of the trees.

"I feel so rejected, Sherlock," he said breathlessly, the mirth never leaving his voice. "Why won't you be my friend?"

Sherlock turned on him. He found himself closer to him than he had anticipated. Jim seemed to have been standing little more than an inch behind him. Jim's dark eyes flashed with amusement as Sherlock took a clumsy step back and sunk a few inches into the muck.

"Did you do it?" he snapped, wrenching himself up out of the puddle.

"Do what?" Jim said, cocking his head to the side. He was a good few inches shorter than Sherlock, but the uneven ground made them roughly the same height. Sherlock couldn't move backwards without finding himself sinking into the mud or forwards without creating undesirable closeness between him and Moriarty.

"You know what," Sherlock snapped.

Jim smirked. There was glee in every feature. It lit his face up with a sickening glow. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you feel _sorry_  for that lump of useless flesh?" he said with a shrill laugh.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and then pushed past him, desperate to get out of the damp undergrowth.

"I should have killed the fucker!" Jim shouted after him, as he burst out onto the cold, sunlit field.

He could see John and his teammates doing laps around the pitch. John was far behind them, his small, blonde figure obvious beside Ben Greer's darker figure. Sherlock didn't want to leave. He felt like he had made a promise to John that he'd stay. He hadn't, but it seemed callous to leave John here when he'd been so nervous about his first practice.

Unfortunately, he was no longer alone to enjoy the sight of John in his football uniform.

"Don't you want to know how I did it?" Jim appeared beside him.

"No," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

He started walking back along the edge of the field towards the steps.

"You do!" Jim called in a sing-song voice from behind him. "I know you do, Sherlock!"

Sherlock clenched his teeth together. His name sounded like a taunt every time Jim used it.

"Tell me then," Sherlock spat, turning to him. "Tell me how you almost got an innocent boy killed."

Jim looked at him, his eyes running eagerly over every line of his face. He gave a burst of almost manic, stunted laughter. "Oh! That is  _good_. Do you use that reverse psychology on everyone, Sherlock? It's very good. You certainly had me fooled. I know how much you care about fuckwits, Sherlock."

"What do you want?" Sherlock growled.

Jim took a step towards him, the smirk carefully tucked back in the corners of his mouth. "I could destroy this school, you know. I could destroy every student, every teacher. I could reduce it to rubble. Would you like me to?"

Sherlock stared at him in silence. His palms felt clammy against the cold, damp air. Jim's eyes were fixed intently on him. The glee had abruptly left his eyes, to be replaced by cold blackness. A void emptiness.

"You hate this school," Jim said softy. Sherlock could sense him moving closer to him, seeping into his personal space and dampening the air around them with poison but he didn't move. "You would destroy it if you got the chance, wouldn't you?"

"That's the difference between you and me," Sherlock said quietly. "I don't set out to destroy something just because I don't like it."

Jim gave a low laugh and reached towards him. Sherlock felt like his throat had contracted and he couldn't move. Jim straightened his collar in a mocking fashion, his eyes never leaving his face. His cold fingers grazed the curve of Sherlock's neck. "I could destroy your whole world, Sherlock."

Sherlock finally seemed to remember where he was again and roughly pushed Jim away from him. "Just stay away from me," he snapped. He wanted to add "and John" but he knew that revealing his relationship with John to Jim Moriarty would be an extremely stupid thing to do.

"They tell me you're brilliant," Jim breathed, his demeanour rapidly changing again. His hands were still raised from where he had been adjusting Sherlock's collar. They almost seemed to be trembling in the air. "Prove it. Get me expelled."

"I could tell them what you did," Sherlock said, almost transfixed by the look that had come into Jim's eyes so suddenly and sharply.

Jim seemed to snap back to life. He gave a delighted laugh. "Let's not be  _obvious_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced back over at the team on the field before he could stop himself. Jim turned to look too with an extravagant movement of his head.

"Oh, oh, oh! Don't tell me!" he exclaimed, looking back at Sherlock with an almost wild expression. "Which one is it, Sherlock? Which one don't you want me getting close to?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He could see John's figure out of the corner of his eye. His throat felt dry. His body tingled with the desire to look. But if he looked, he'd give away everything to Moriarty in a single careless glance.

"Don't worry," Jim said, with a derisive wink. "I'll find out who it is sooner or later, Sherlock. I know you can't keep your hand out of the honey pot for long."

Sherlock watched him stroll back up towards the steps, whistling and chuckling to himself in turn. He looked back out to where John and the team were.

Jim was disappearing up the stairs. He never looked back, but there was an infuriating sense that he knew that Sherlock was watching him. Sherlock knew it would have sounded crazy if he'd said that aloud to anyone. But everything that had happened between him and Jim would have sounded crazy to an outsider. The vaguest of teasing threats, the sense that Jim  _knew_  him, the sense that he intended him harm. Sherlock didn't know what to make of it.

What concerned him most of all was that beneath the obligatory layer of indignity and disapproval, was a spark of excitement. He tried to extinguish it beneath a growing layer of disgust and irritation at himself, but it was a determined little ember.

He found himself following Jim before he was fully aware of what he was doing. There was only fifteen minutes to go until the end of practice. John wouldn't miss him.

By the time he got to the doors of the school, Jim was gone. He seemed to have evaporated into the air, leaving no sign of muddy footprints or wet leaves on the floor of the corridor. Sherlock scraped his shoes off on the edge of the stairs and went in. He still left vague imprints of dirt behind him on the shiny surface.

He walked blindly through the school, jerking every time he heard footsteps behind him or someone's voice. But it was never him. Just other students. All of whom looked at Sherlock with increasing wariness these days. There seemed to have been an evolution in their dislike from childish aversion to deep-seated suspicion. Sherlock got the impression that they found it somewhat affronting that he wasn't intimidated by Marty, the only Ace card they possessed.

He reached the dorm corridor without having completely made up his mind that that was where he was walking to. He was conscious of people looking at him as he passed. It was more than the usual sneering glances. He knew it. He felt it. Sherlock didn't care if people wanted to stare, but there was something different about having their eyes on him today.

He reached his own door. There was a small cluster of boys around it. He didn't recognise any of them.

"Step aside," he said curtly, ignoring their smirks.

There were sniggers. A few of them glanced at each other. A few moved out of the way, grinning.

"Get out of my way," Sherlock snapped, forcing his way through them. He came to a halt short of his door.

"Serves you right, you gay fuck!"

There were shouts of laughter. Sherlock didn't turn.

Someone had taken a knife to his door. The paint had been scraped away in an endless collage of gay slurs. It was extraordinary. Sherlock had never seen anything like it.

Silently he unlocked his door and slipped inside, shutting out the gleeful crowd. He flattened himself against it, breathing hard and listening to the people still outside, closing in against his door.

"How," he asked the emptiness. "How..."

He stared at the empty bed Ben would soon be occupying. It had been made up with white sheets and the school's ugly grey bedspread. There were still fallen items of clothing and books peppering the floor and most flat surfaces. Sherlock would have to clear it before his new roommate arrived.

\--

"Mr. Watson?"

John hastily straightened up from the wall, yanking his bag higher up his arm. Hurst raised an unruly eyebrow at him. There were dark shadows hanging low beneath his eyes, his skin looked paler and more ashen than usual. John didn't remember him ever looking so worn and haggard.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," he said. "Can I come in?"

"Certainly," Hurst said, stepping back from the door of his office.

John had never been inside Hurst's office. It was cramped and gloomy and extremely unkempt. The only window was hidden behind a dirty, metal blind.

"So, what can I do for you?" Hurst said, falling heavily into a leather office chair behind his desk.

John tentatively took a seat opposite. He always felt awkward in a teacher's office. "I was just hoping... I was wondering why Sherlock and I haven't gotten our play back yet?"

"Play?"Hurst said blankly.

"For English," John said, flushing at the thought that his writing had been so forgettable.

"Oh!" Hurst said. "Of course. Yes." He frowned down at his desk, as though trying to grasp something in the back of his memory. "I thought I gave it back to Sherlock."

John stared at him. "I don't think that's possible, sir."

Hurst looked up, nodding to himself. "No, I remember. I definitely gave it back to Sherlock."

John didn't reply immediately. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to think of something to say besides "that's impossible". Hurst was watching him and he could feel himself beginning to go red. "I... I... Are you certain?"

"Very," Hurst replied, leaning back in his chair with a low groan. "Right before Christmas. He told me he'd tell you."

"He did," John said quietly.

"He must have forgotten about it over Christmas." Hurst shook his head. "It's probably not surprising. I did sort of spring it on him last minute. I'd get onto him as soon as you can though. I think you could still do a very decent rewrite if you really got stuck in over the next few weeks."

John's workload was already piling up. With football on top of everything else, he didn't know how he was going to find the time to rewrite a 20,000 word play. His stomach twisted uncomfortably inside of him.

"I don't know," he said, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"I'm sure Sherlock will give you a hand," Hurst said bracingly.

John gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to laugh. Though he felt anything but amused. "Yeah. I'm sure. But he's already done so much."

"Well, I'm sure you'll do fine." Hurst gave a wide yawn and sat forward a few inches in his chair. In the poor lighting his skin looked unhealthily like parchment. "It was actually very good."

"Really?" John said dubiously.

"Well, there are a few grammar and punctuation issues," Hurst added. "But I think that with a little work, you could get an A."

"Wow," John said, unable to show much enthusiasm. "Anything else?"

"It might help if you chose a theme," Hurst said. "The storyline was a little convoluted in places. An overarching theme helps things fall more comfortably into place. Good work with the murder mystery though. Not many people can pull them off half as convincingly."

"Thanks," John said, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. "Thanks for your help. I guess I've got a bit of work to do."

"Not too much. Just hunt Sherlock down as soon as you can," Hurst replied.

John gave a low laugh. "Oh, I certainly will."

He left Hurst's office, barely conscious of which direction he was going in. He was almost blinded by anger. He felt like taking Sherlock's phone out of his pocket and smashing it against the nearest wall. Sitting there, listening to Hurst's good-natured excuses for Sherlock had been unbearable. If only he knew. If only he knew just how wrong he was.

He wheeled around the corner into another corridor, darting around people and barely looking up from the floor in front of him.

He found himself in the library. It was where Sherlock spent most of his nights when he wasn't with him. He found him in his usual corner, hunched over a dense textbook with a deteriorating spine.

He didn't look up. John stared at him, hardly able to believe that he couldn't feel the enraged heat radiating off of him. At length he gave the table leg a sharp kick.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Oh, hi."

"Don't  _oh hi_  me," John spat, folding his arms. He wanted to gather every inch of his anger and stay angry. Sherlock had a talent for weaselling his way out of trouble.

"What's wrong now?" Sherlock said, going back to his book.

John gave the table another furious kick. "Where is it?"

Sherlock lifted the book up, frowning at him. "Would you stop that?"

"I should kick you in the  _head_ ," John snapped. "Where the hell is it? Where did you stash it?"

"Stash wh-"

Realisation bloomed across Sherlock's features. "Oh."

"Oh," John retorted. " _Oh._ Is that all you've got to say?"

"Why don't we talk about this in private?" Sherlock said, standing and pushing the book into his bag.

"Fine," John said acidly. "At least in private I can punch you in the face."

He stalked back towards the doors of the library. Sherlock trailed after him. John didn't slow his pace. He wanted Sherlock to be out of breath by the time they got back to his room, though Sherlock's legs were longer enough than his to make it a difficult task to keep ahead of him.

"John, slow down," Sherlock snapped, taking a hold of John's sleeve.

They were close to the dorms. John stopped in spite of himself and turned to him, breathing hard. "What?"

"I think we should go somewhere else," Sherlock said, watching him seriously.

"It's late, Sherlock," John said impatiently, pushing the doors open. "No one will see us."

"That's not what I mean," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He followed him inside. "Look, John. I really think we should go somewhere else. We'll go to the dark room or something."

John looked at him with narrowed eyes. "I'm not interested in playing games. We're going to talk about this right now."

He walked along to where Sherlock's room was. "John," Sherlock said quietly.

John stopped. His mouth seemed to go dry in his head. He hardly felt Sherlock's hand rest on his arm. He stared at the ruined door, his anger trickling away in a rush of cold disbelief. "Who did this?"

Sherlock appeared next to him. He didn't look upset. Somehow that made it worse. Like Sherlock somehow expected this treatment. "I don't know. They didn't exactly leave their name."

"I'm going to kill them." John was trembling. "I'm going to kill them. Just tell me, Sherlock. I'll fucking rip them limb from limb. I'll fucking  _destroy_  them."

"Would you keep your voice down?" Sherlock hissed, glancing around. "Get inside."

he ushered him into the room. John didn't argue, didn't struggle. When they were safely inside, he couldn't think of anything to say. There was nothing he could say aloud when in his mind all he could think was how he wanted to find the culprit and beat them until his knuckles broke.

"Look, it's not a big deal," Sherlock said, walking across to the window and pulling the curtains across. "They're getting me a new door tomorrow."

"What else?" John said, staring unfocusedly at him.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said, leaning against the wall and folding his arms across his school jumper.

"What are they going to do about this?" John said, lips thinned.

Sherlock watched him. "You know what Redverse is like," he said gently, as though John was in danger of becoming hysterical again. "Unless my parents call up and demand they hunt down the culprit, which is astronomically unlikely, they won't lift a finger. I'm not exactly its main concern at the moment."

"I don't believe this," John said. He paced across the floor, running his hands through his hair. "I don't fucking believe this."

Sherlock took a step forward, catching his wrists in his hands and pulling them down beside him. "Calm down. It's okay. Really. I couldn't care less what those bastards think of me. You know I don't care."

"That's not the point," John said weakly, staring up at him. "You know it's not."

He pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip and turned back towards the door. The sick design of slander was an inch away on the other side. John felt so sick he could hardly speak. He had to turn his back on it.

"I don't know how you can just stand there," he said in a low voice. "How can you let them get away with it?"

Sherlock sighed, looking down at the floor. "They're not getting away with anything. They're just stupid kids. They don't even know what half those words mean."

John exhaled softly, sinking down onto the unmade covers of Sherlock's bed and resting his head against his hands.

"So where is it?" he said at length, breaking the grim silence.

Sherlock looked at him.

"The play."

"Oh," Sherlock glanced over to where his school bag was. "In there."

John went across to it and unzipped it. Like most of Sherlock's belongings, it was incredibly messy. Books and papers were crammed inside, with a vast assortment of what seemed to be junk.

"Gross," he said, picking out a sodden empty cigarette packet with his finger and thumb. "What is your aversion to cleanliness?"

"My thoughts work best when my surroundings aren't sterile," Sherlock replied coolly with a sniff.

John rolled his eyes and dropped it into the rubbish bin next to Sherlock's desk. "Right."

It didn't take long to find it. It was neatly slotted between his maths textbook and his copy of  _Macbeth_. John hadn't seen him open it once, but he seemed to have memorized it line for line. Sherlock had an uncanny memory when it came to anything that concerned gruesome deaths.

It was surprisingly well-kept, though a little dog-eared. John took it back to the bed and sat down. The words "Assignment 2: Play" was typed in Arial across the top, above the words "Sherlock Holmes & John Watson".

"Hurst liked your detective work," he remarked.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. He was staring at the opposite wall, his brow furrowed.

"Hello?" John said, lifting a hand in front of his face. "Did you hear me?"

"Idiots are always impressed by the slightest display of innovation," Sherlock replied coolly, without hesitating.

"Well," John said, dropping the pile of stapled paper beside him. "If you're so innovative, you can work out a theme that involves a woman getting plugged by her son."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a loud buzz from the pocket of John's trousers. Sherlock stared at it, frowning. "Something you'd like to share?"

John dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out Sherlock's phone. The screen had lit up. "Mycroft?" he said confusedly. "Why is Mycroft texting you?"

"I think a more pressing question is why you have my phone in your pocket," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. He came to the side of the bed, holding out a hand.

John dropped it onto his palm. "Marty found it in the common room."

Sherlock stared at him and then down at his phone. "The common room. That doesn't make any sense. I never step foot in the common room." He was frowning deeply.

"Well... what other explanation is there?" John said, watching him as his thumb moved rapidly over the number pad.

"He stole it," Sherlock said grimly, not looking up.

"It's locked with a code," John pointed out. "Marty isn't bright enough to break into a phone. Trust me."

Sherlock shrugged. He sunk down onto the bed next to him, his eyes still fixed on his phone. It was clear that he was running over every possibility in his head for just how Marty could get a hold of his property. "Bloody Mycroft..." he growled, locking it again and tossing it onto the bedside table.

"What did he say?" John said, staring at it.

"He's been harassing me ever since we got back to school," Sherlock said irritably, standing and walking across to his chair. He pulled his jumper over his head. His perpetually untucked shirt rode up a few inches underneath. "He's just trying to get a rise out of me."

John didn't reply. It was the first time Sherlock had mentioned Mycroft in front of him since the kiss. John hoped it was a sign that he was beginning to forget the incident.

"Are you sure he's just being annoying?" he said at length, careful in his choice of words.

Sherlock snorted. "What else?"

John shrugged, fiddling with the dishevelled blankets on Sherlock's bed. "Don't you think he might have better things to do than harass you?" He didn't look at Sherlock. He hoped he hadn't overstepped the mark.

Sherlock didn't reply for a long while. John could feel his eyes on him. "No," he said at length. "Trust me. Mycroft is indomitable when he's being a tosser." He paused with a sigh. "He's just trying to piss me off because of my bir-"

He cut off, looking sharply at John.

"What?" John said. "What were you about to say?"

Sherlock went faintly pink and cringed. "Nothing, John."

John frowned. He didn't know what was worse, that Sherlock thought he could fob him off with such a feeble excuse or that he didn't think John knew exactly what he was going to say.

He stood. Sherlock stared at him. "Where are you going?"

John shrugged and picked up the play. "I'm not going to stay here and listen to your crap."

He walked towards the door. The last thing he wanted to do was look at the abuse scrawled across Sherlock's door but he'd close his eyes if he had to. "John," Sherlock said, when his hand was on the handle. "Don't go."

John turned to him. "Why not?" he said calmly. "You lied to me. You hid things from me." The hand holding the play twitched. "And now you won't even tell me why you didn't tell me it was your birthday."

"It was four days ago, John," Sherlock said tiredly. "I just couldn't be bothered with the fuss."

"You mean you couldn't be bothered with  _me_ ," John said angrily.

"No!" Sherlock snapped. "That is not it. You know I would never hide anything from you."

John held up the play, narrowing his eyes. "Try again, Sherlock."

Sherlock watched him silently and then looked away with a quiet sigh. "I don't know why I did it. I kept meaning to tell you but... but days kept going by and you never asked... so I never told you."

"Why?" John said sharply. "Why didn't you?"

"Because... I wanted you to myself," Sherlock said, looking straight into his eyes. "I didn't want you working on it over Christmas. I know it was selfish-"

"Yeah! It was bloody selfish!" John said, brandishing it at him. "I can't believe you did something like that. If I  _ever_ did something like tha-"

He cut off, flushing. He knew they were thinking of the same thing.

"It was completely different," he said quietly. "You did this on purpose."

"I know," Sherlock said, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. "I'm sorry," he added in a mumble.

John could feel his resolve buckling under the weight of Sherlock's serious expression, the depth of sincerity in his face. He wasn't lying. John knew it. "And your birthday? Why didn't you tell me about that?" he said in a hard voice, not wanting Sherlock to think he was softening.

"Personally, I don't think being one year closer to death is anything to celebrate," he said flatly.

John laughed, in spite of himself. "Yeah... Well, next time. Tell me," he said gruffly, clearing his throat hurriedly.

"So... Will you stay?" Sherlock said, his cheeks going pink again.

"No," John said. "Sorry. I have a lot of homework to do."

He enjoyed the look of affront on Sherlock's face but hastened to add:

"But meet me in the dark room after school tomorrow. Maybe I'll have a birthday present for you." He smirked.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Give it to me now."

John's knees almost buckled at the neediness in Sherlock's voice but he shook his head. "Nope. You'll have to amuse yourself some other way." He glanced at the empty bed. "He's moving in here tomorrow, isn't he?"

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly. "He is."

"Ben's ok," John said, in a weak attempt at atoning for the fact that Sherlock's most prized possession-his solitude-was going to be taken from him within hours. "He'll be ok to room with."

Sherlock just shrugged. He seemed bitterly disappointed that John wasn't staying. John didn't mind that. He wasn't going to let him off the hook scot free.

"See you tomorrow then," he said, touching the doorhandle.

Sherlock almost pouted. "But I'm horny now," he complained.

"Too bad," John grinned.

He slipped out, closing the door behind him and carefully averting his eyes from the carved tattoo of obscenities.

\--

By midday the next day Sherlock's ruined door had been removed and replaced with a shiny, clean new one. Much to the amusement of most of the students.

Not much was otherwise said about it. Harvey delivered a grave warning against vandalism at assembly and that was that.

Hurst cornered him after English class and said in a low, guilty voice that if he "wanted to talk" he could come to him. Sherlock felt a little sorry for him, he seemed even more dishevelled and ashen than usual so he refrained from expressing his true feelings concerning that offer of counsel and merely nodded.

He caught a glimpse of John as they filtered out into the corridor. He had no doubt overheard Hurst. John had been characteristically outraged by what had happened; he'd probably urge Sherlock to take Hurst up on his offer. He seemed unable to accept that Sherlock didn't care about what had happened.

He pushed his books into his bag and headed in the opposite direction to his classmates. He had spent the greater part of the morning's classes fantasizing about when he'd be alone with John and intended to spend lunch in a similar employment.

It took only a few feet for him to realise he was being followed. They weren't exactly attempting to muffle their footsteps, and there was more than one of them. Sherlock knew what was going to happen before it did.

A hand gripped the back of his school shirt. The collision with the corridor wall almost knocked the wind out of him. For a moment he couldn't do anything but gasp and stare at his attacker.

Marty didn't smirk at him. He looked extremely angry. Sherlock wondered what had happened for him to need a punching bag. He was with two footballers that Sherlock only vaguely recognised.

"You just don't take a hint, do you?" Marty shoved him to the ground, almost hanging Sherlock by his collar before he let go of it at the last second.

Sherlock landed painfully on his knees, staring up at him. "What do you want, Hester?"

Marty's foot came into contact with his stomach. It was the most painful thing Sherlock had ever experienced. For seconds he could do nothing but gasp helplessly for air. It felt like his lungs had forgotten how to take in oxygen. The pain reverberated through his entire form like an echo.

When he caught his breath, the two boys were grinning. Marty was not. He was watching him, his eyes little more than slits. "No one fucking wants you here."

He picked up Sherlock's bag and tipped it upside down. A small avalanche of school books, paper and stationary spilt across the floor. One of the boys kicked a couple of his books away. They landed against the opposite wall with a thud.

"Come on," Marty said in a low voice, jerking his head to his friends.

They walked across his spilt belongings and disappeared down the corridor. Sherlock stayed where he was on the ground. He didn't entirely trust that they wouldn't come back and beat the shit out of him.

But they didn't return and he began to gather his things back into a pile, sliding across the linoleum on his knees. He started stuffing it back into his bag in handfuls.

When he heard footsteps behind him, he knew it wasn't Marty and his cronies. There was something soft and measured in the steps that made him immediately aware of whom they belonged to.

He looked up. Jim surveyed him with sparkling amusement. He stopped in front of him, looking down at him with raised eyebrows. "Lost something?"

Sherlock yanked a textbook out from under Jim's vigorously shined shoe. "How do you always manage to turn up whenever there's something violent happening?"

Jim's lips jerked up into a puppet-like smile. "Call me a sadist. I just love to see you on your knees, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood, yanking his bag onto his shoulder. "You think you're going to drive me out of this school?"

"Out of this school and right into my arms," Jim said in a syrupy voice, the mechanical smile still fixed on his mouth. "Don't you like me, Sherlock? I thought you of all people could appreciate novelty when you see it. I think... secretly... somewhere inside that dull facade you rather get off on mayhem. Just as much as I do. I'm right, aren't I? Oh tell me I'm right, Sherlock." The same breathlessness was in his voice again.

Sherlock stepped back from him. The closeness was poisonous. "I'm nothing like you."

He turned on his heel and walked away towards the steps at the end of the hall. Jim gave a abrupt laugh from behind him.

"Oh! But we all know that's not  _tru-ue_!"

The one thing Sherlock was thankful for was that Marty hadn't hit him in the face. He didn't completely know if he'd be able to stop John committing homicide if he had discovered that Marty had been victimizing him again.

He lifted up his jumper and his shirt in the mirror and traced down the curve of his ribs. There was no bruise. Though it still hurt intensely when he pressed on it. There was no reason John had to know about what happened. He'd panic and lose his temper and do something stupid and Sherlock didn't know if he could take any more unpleasant surprises after the door incident.

There was a low knock at the door. Sherlock dropped his shirt down again and went across to open it. Ben Greer peered up at him, holding a green toothbrush in one hand and a towel in the other. He was in his pyjamas. Sherlock stepped back from the door.

He didn't know what he was going to say to explain his absence later that evening. Maybe he wouldn't say anything. He doubted whether Ben would care.

Ben went wordlessly across to his bed. His bags were still in a pile next to it. He hadn't spent much time in their room since he had moved his things in earlier that afternoon. Sherlock hoped that that was a representation of how much time he would spend in there thereafter. He felt suffocated just looking at another person who wasn't John. The thought that they had made love in here, this very room and this graceless intruder was marring it with his presence, marring their private place was sickening.

Ben flopped onto his back on the bed and immediately attached himself to his phone. Sherlock sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on reading, but it was impossible. He could feel the boy's presence behind him, he knew when he was looking at him, he heard when he received a text and every creak of the bed when he moved. It was insufferable.

Finally, at some time past eight he left again without saying a word. Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaling softly. He'd have to get used to it. He'd have to get used to the complete invasion of his privacy. He curled his fists tight on the desk.

He pushed the discomfort away and left early to meet John in the dark room. He had never wanted to see him so desperately. His ribs still ached from where Marty had kicked him. Ben had left his uniform spread across the floor. It felt like an unbearable affront to the space that should have been Sherlock's.

He reached the dark room without incident and without meeting anyone. He unlocked the door and slipped inside. It was utterly pitch black. He ventured carefully across to where the light switch was and turned it on. Sickly yellow light filled the room.

"Sherlock?" John's soft voice came from the doorway.

"In here," Sherlock replied.

John crept inside. He heard him close the door behind him. He was wearing jeans and a jacket. He smiled when he saw him.

"You managed to control yourself for 24 hours then," he teased, coming to a halt opposite him.

"Barely," Sherlock said, his fingers itching with the temptation to touch every inch of John's body.

"What's with the coat?" he remarked, eyeing the bulky obstacle.

John flushed a little and touched it. "Well, it was such short notice I couldn't get you a proper present so I thought I'd improvise. Happy Birthday."

He pulled the coat off and dropped it next to him. Sherlock felt his stomach constrict.

"John..." he croaked.

John's football toned torso was clad in the familiar white cotton shirt Sherlock had given him for Christmas. There was something intensely sexy about John professing his love for cock through a t-shirt. Sherlock didn't think he would ever entirely lose the liking for it.

There was half an inch of skin visible between the hem of the shirt and the tight band of his jeans. Sherlock leant forward and threaded his fingers through John's hair. John rested his hands on his hips, fingers teasingly close to the band of Sherlock's school trousers. When he released him, his hair was ruffled into perfection. He tried to smirk, but the corners of his mouth trembled. "This is very adequate," Sherlock said.

"Adequate?" John said, raising his eyebrows.

He pressed himself against him. Sherlock felt breathless for the second time in a day, but this time it was for a very different reason. John's body was seeping into every inch of his and it was intoxicating.

John tilted his mouth up towards his, rolling up onto the balls of his feet to close the inches between them. He touched his top lip with his tongue with a teasing smirk. "Just adequate?" he breathed, his hands gripped Sherlock's collar.

He kissed him. At first softly, gently teasing his lips with his and compliantly opening his mouth to be plundered by Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock tightened his hands on John's waist. He changed their positions, forcing him against the bench and wrenching a gasp from John's lips.

John's kiss became rougher. His grip on Sherlock's collar was firm and Sherlock couldn't have broken away if he had wanted to. John's tongue began to fight his for dominance and soon it wasn't John's mouth being slowly fucked but his.

"Ugh, John," he moaned, as John finally pulled away.

John's mouth was furiously red and extremely wet. Sherlock could feel his own mouth burning from John's assault. John smiled at him, eyes glinting. His eyes trailed down from Sherlock's face to their bodies pressed against each other. "Wow, you really are horny," he remarked.

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbled, very aware of how his cock was already straining against John's thigh.

John forced a hand between them and tightened it around the obvious bulge. Sherlock exhaled unsteadily, barely resisting the urge to roll against John's palm. "Cock-tease," he growled.

John grinned at him and released him. "You're just a needy like bitch, really? Aren't you?"

Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist. John made a sound of surprise as he was deposited against the nearest wall and his hands were pinned firmly above his head. He blinked up at Sherlock, flushing.

"You think you can keep me in this position?" he said breathlessly.

"Mmm, you like this position," Sherlock said, grinding his hips against John's and extracting a low groan from him. "Admit it."

John pushed a knee between his thighs and Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from omitting a humiliating sound. "Ah- Oh God," he panted, rocking his crotch against John's leg.

John took advantage of his distraction and wrenched his hands from Sherlock's grip. The next moment Sherlock was being backed against the bench against the opposite wall and hands were moving over his body with furious intent.

He was barely conscious of their progress but somehow John dispensed him of his jumper and his fingers worked feverishly at the buttons on his shirt, while his mouth roughly claimed Sherlock's. Sometimes his kiss was so fierce it felt like he was almost taking a bite out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the pain of being pressed against the bench, which dug directly into his hips but his ability to care had long been disabled by John's hands. John ripped his shirt open and lowered himself in front of him, his mouth teasingly close to Sherlock's skin. Every hair seemed to be standing violently on end on his body. His nipples were dark and hard.

John looked up at him with a truly wanton expression, his mouth inches from Sherlock's nipple. If anything could have made him cream himself right there and then it was the look on John's face. He smiled and teasingly licked him. He moved lower, his hands in the curve of Sherlock's waist.

He lowered himself until his mouth was perfectly level with Sherlock's straining cock. He pressed his lips against it. Sherlock felt his salvia seep through the material. "Yes, John," he gasped, throwing his head back with his eyes closed. "Please."

"Such a good boy," John murmured against his erection. "Saying please so nicely for me."

Sherlock growled and dug his hand tight into John's hair, gripping it hard. John let out a quiet breath of surprise, but didn't pull away. He raised himself up again and slid his fingers into Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He could feel John's fingers agonizingly close to the dell between his hips. John's fingers moved clumsily over the buttons, his eyes never left Sherlock's. They were glowing fiercely and Sherlock could hardly bear blinking if it meant missing a moment of it.

He ran his hands up John's torso, loving the feel of the soft material beneath his fingers. John's nipples were taut beneath the thin garment.

He felt his trousers slip a few inches downwards and looked down. His underwear was protruding obscenely and there was a wet patch from his pre-cum and John's saliva. John palmed it with his hand.

Sherlock arched against the bench. "Ngh-Yes-"

His nostrils were stinging from John's deodorant and the sharp smell of the dark room. There was something heady about the scent, something that made him almost groggy with arousal.

"What do you want?" John said softly, his hands still gently fondling him through his underwear.

Sherlock wished he could control his breathing. He was panting, his body was heaving and it was obvious in what state he was in. John could have asked anything of him at that moment and Sherlock would have gladly given it. But at this moment, he truly knew what he wanted.

"I want you to fuck me," he said in a low voice.

John bit his lip with a soft moan. "You want it."

"I want you inside of me," Sherlock breathed, his lips colliding with John's forehead, sticky and wet.

"Turn," John hissed.

Sherlock did as he was told, leaving a thread of salvia between his lips and John's skin. He gripped the bench hard, trying to steady himself. John's breath was hot against his ear. "We don't have anything."

"I don't care," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, his nails gripping the surface of the desk painfully hard. "Use spit. Use blood. I don't care. Just do it  _now_."

John guided his trousers lower down his thighs until they fell loose around his knees. His hands touched his underwear and gently pulled it down. The air caressed Sherlock's aching cock like a teasing hand. He bent further over the bench, spreading his legs and gasping for air.

John's fingers crept along the curve of his arse, tentative and exploratory. They were damp and warm. Sherlock curved his back as John's fingers slipped between his buttocks and touched his long neglected entrance.

"Now," he gasped. "Please. Need you."

John hesitated for a moment and then slipped a finger inside of him. Sherlock writhed against the bench. It had been so long since he'd had something inside of him. John added another, stretching him like he had been stretched numerous times.

"Are you ok?" he said in a breathy voice, as Sherlock began to whimper.

"Yes," Sherlock managed to choke out. "Want... need..."

John extracted his fingers gently. "What do you need?" he said softly. "Tell me what you need."

"Need... need your cock inside... inside me," Sherlock said in shuddery spurts.

John sucked in a breath with a moan. His hands became painfully tight on Sherlock's waist and Sherlock felt the crown of his cock touch his entrance. A moment later he eased himself in slowly- torturously slowly.

Sherlock clawed at the bench, feeling like he would suffocate from the sensation. "Ugh... Oh God-God..."

"Sherlock," John choked. "Sherlock... it... I..."

He sounded overwhelmed by the sensation. Sherlock cried out as John pushed himself all of the way in.

"Ngh- It's s-so t-tight..." he whimpered.

"Fuck me," Sherlock gasped. "Fuck me, John."

John obeyed. His movements were rough and unsteady. He was hardly able to control himself. Sherlock knew he was struggling with the new sensations. He knew that it would be a while before John would be able to control himself when he was buried up to the hilt in that endless, hot tightness.

In the secluded privacy of the dark room, their moans and grunts were swallowed by the silence. Sherlock had never felt anything so suffocatingly pleasurable in his entire existence. He had missed this feeling. This feeling of being full to the brim and overflowing with the desperate need for more.

John's body came against his fiercely and quickly. Without meaning to, John was fucking him furiously hard and Sherlock's hole burnt at the sensation. It was blinding. He was intoxicated by the sensation.

And John's sounds. His little moans, his little gasps, his breathless groans were beautiful. He was perfect in his bliss.

"John... John..." Sherlock panted. "I'm... Oh- So close, John."

John was too. He could feel it. The desperation and need in his movements. His body fiercely needed to spend itself. John's hand closed tightly around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock threw his head back with an almost animalistic cry as the oblivion of orgasm overtook him. He cried out John's name again and again, forcing himself back against him and wanting more and more of John inside of him.

John toppled over the edge after him. With sounds that were muffled by the intense cacophony in his own head, John drove himself once more inside of him. Sherlock felt John's seed rush warmly into him. John rode out his orgasm inside of him with raw gasps for air.

Sherlock's could feel wood under his nails from where he had been scraping the surface of the bench. His breathing was unquenchable, no amount of air seemed to sate his lungs. John's arms were wrapped around his torso. He was thankful that John had short nails or he would probably have sustained permanent scars.

At length, John gave a businesslike cough and stepped back, pulling out of him. Sherlock turned and leant his back against the bench. John was a deep shade of magenta. His jeans were unzipped and hanging around his thighs. His cock was still hanging out of his underwear.

John seemed to see where his gaze was directed and hastily tucked himself back in. Sherlock felt vaguely for his own clothes pooled around his legs and tugged them up.

John smiled sheepishly at him and picked up his fallen coat. "Well... ah... Happy Birthday."

Sherlock shook his head, still fumbling blindly with the buttons on his school shirt. "I knew that whole virgin schoolboy act was phony. You're a little dominatrix."

"Shut up," John said, though he grinned good-naturedly.

John donned his coat again and Sherlock tried to make it less obvious that he had just been bent over and fucked by his boyfriend, but that late at night it was difficult to care.

Just before they ventured out of the dark room, John put his arms around his neck and planted a very gentle kiss on his lips. Sherlock savoured every last second of having John in his arms. His smell, his feel, his warmth, his heartbeat, his breathing.

"One day we'll be able to have sex just like any other couple and not have to worry about getting killed," John said in a low voice.

"Until then," Sherlock said, pulling away. "Godspeed."

With one last fleeting smile, John left the dark room. Sherlock counted to thirty while he went across to turn off the lights and make sure that they hadn't left behind any evidence of their activities. Then he left also and locked the door behind him.

He arrived back in the dorms just in time to see John disappearing into his own room.

A short distance away Marty was standing with his back to him, stooped towards someone and talking feverishly. As Sherlock neared him he saw Jim leaning idly against the wall next to him, his arms folded and his expression blank.

His eyes rested on Sherlock as he passed. Sherlock stared back at him, conscious of his dishevelled appearance and the smell of sweat and sex on all of his clothes.

Marty was still speaking rapidly. Sherlock couldn't hear what he was saying. He could only wonder at what Marty had to say to someone like Jim Moriarty. Especially when Jim put a hand to Marty's chest and gave him a sharp shove away. Marty stumbled back. If it had been anyone else he would have had them on the floor within a heartbeat but he just blinked at Jim in surprise and, though Sherlock hardly dared to believe it, apparent hurt.

Sherlock turned his back on them and went up to his room. The shiny, new door stuck out like a sore thumb among the others. Sherlock let himself in and closed the door on the outside world, eager to recount every heated detail of that evening and purge Marty and especially Jim from his mind's eye.

_End of Chapter Twenty-Two_


	23. Chapter 23

"Sherlock? Sherlock.  _Sherlock._ "

John's irritated voice broke into Sherlock's thoughts. He jerked his head in his direction. John was seated cross-legged on the bed, the play script resting on his lap and a pen between his fingers. He scowled at him.

"Are you even listening?" he said irritably.

Sherlock leant against the windowsill, folding his arms across his chest. "Where are you up to?" he said, inexpertly avoiding the question.

"Look," John said flatly, tapping the script impatiently with his pen. "It's your fault we're so behind with this. The least you can do is pay attention."

Sherlock nodded vaguely and wandered across to Billy's empty bed. "I am." John followed him with narrowed eyes. There was still glass shards sprinkled across the carpet underneath it.

"You're not," John said irritably.

It had taken over a week for Billy's pockmarked figure to slouch back through the school gates. Sherlock wondered what Principal Harvey had told the parents to avoid an uproar. " _Accident"_  was probably the word of choice. It was such a pliable go-to word.

Sherlock squatted down, picking up a shard of glass from the carpet and rolling it between his finger and thumb.

The jar had been placed quite snugly between the mattress and the wooden frame of the bed. All it had taken was Billy piling all 200 pounds of himself into bed to release the critters from their prison. Sherlock wondered if the dimwit had even heard the glass crack.

"Sherlock!"

John's scuffed school shoes appeared beside him. He made an impatient sound between his teeth.

"Would you get up from there?"

Sherlock rested back on his heels, holding the glass out in his palm. "Why haven't they cleaned this up? It's dangerous."

John folded his arms, not looking as though he particularly appreciated Sherlock's concern. "Is this necessary?"

Sherlock shrugged. He got to his feet, dusting the sprinkling of miniature glass shards off his school trousers. He dropped the shard into John's waste paper basket with a clunk.

"Look. Can we get on with it?" John said impatiently. "We have two weeks to get this done and we don't even have a theme."

Sherlock stared at the lump of glass at the base of the bin and then turned to John, sighing under his breath. The increasingly dog-eared play was lying open on the bed, covered with Hurst's red pen marks and some additions of John's blue pen. Some of the sentences had been highlighted in yellow. It didn't look as though John had made much progress since he had sat down forty-five minutes ago.

"Haven't we done enough for today?" he said.

John glowered at him. "We haven't  _done_  anything."

Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I don't think our situation is as dire as you've convinced yourself it is. Two weeks is a long time. Novels have been written in shorter spaces of time."

"Bullshit," John snapped over his shoulder, going back to the bed.

"And let's not overlook the fact that the only reason you've suddenly taken such a militant approach to writing is that you're scared shitless about tonight," Sherlock said, watching him.

John looked at him sharply over his shoulder, his cheeks flaring. "Bullshit."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. John tensely leant one knee against the bed, staring down at the open script. "So you have no anxiety whatsoever?"

"No, I'm not anxious," John said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers along the edge of the stapled paper, keeping his eyes down. "Why would I be? It's just football."

Sherlock studied his boyfriend's face. He watched him lean against the wall, pulling his knees up and leaning the script against his knees. His rumpled shirtsleeves were rolled up around his elbows.

"Fine," Sherlock said shortly. "You're not anxious and I'm not going slowly insane with boredom." He wandered back across to the window. It was foggy from the cold. He drew a line down from sill to sill with his finger.

"We don't have time to be bored," John said coolly.

Sherlock didn't reply. He wiped an oval into the damp with his sleeve. A few grey and yellow figures were scattered across the grounds below. The sky was layered with thick, cement grey clouds. It didn't even look like rain could have forced its' way through.

It was extremely cold, but it was the sort of cold that came at the end of winter. The final plunge, before the weather began struggling back towards the more temperate months.

"Are you going to help me or just mope about?" John said at length. Sherlock didn't reply.

He could feel him staring at him, but he didn't turn. He leant his forehead against the cold glass, letting his breath fog up the space he had cleaned with his sleeve.

"Look... would you sit the fuck down?" John said, finally giving into the irritation that had been throbbing faintly in his voice. "It's your fault we're in this position-"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "As you never tire of reminding me. I've basically rewritten the plot, what more do you want?" It had been his punishment of sorts for hiding the play in the first place. It hadn't taken long, but John had various grievances with everything he suggested and it had ended up taking days for him to be satisfied.

"A little support," John said testily.

Sherlock stared unfocusedly at John's desk opposite, avoiding the expression on John's face. He had become too familiar with the four walls of John's room in Billy's absence. He could have counted the cracks in the walls with his eyes closed, named the number of threads lose from the carpet, profiled the footballers in Billy's collection of tattered posters.

There was a heavy stench of insect spray in the room. John didn't think he knew about his nightly routine or noticed how he brushed down his bed before he sat on it, making sure to turn over all the pillows one by one, as though a nest of fireants could have been lurking anywhere.

He pushed himself upright from the windowsill and walked across to the door.

"Where the hell are you going?" John demanded, bolting upright from the wall.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead. The smell of poison was giving him a headache. "I need to get some fresh air."

"But we're not done!" John protested.

"You'll do fine without me," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "I'm just distracting you."

"Sherlock!"

He slammed the door behind him and headed for the dorm doors. He didn't know whether John would come after him, but he didn't wait to find out. He didn't know where he planned on going. It was really too cold to be outside and the thought of being confined in his room was not an attractive one. He needed to walk. He needed space to think.

He headed for the library, deciding to take the longest, most unnecessarily complicated route possible to give himself time to get used to being trapped in a four walled space again. As guilty as he felt for what he had done at Christmas, John's renewed fervour for writing was driving him slowly insane. Especially when his mind was slowly becoming consumed with something else. Someone else. And he couldn't think when John was banging on and on and on about the play script.

He walked through the admin office. The secretary had the phone crammed between her ear and shoulder and narrowed her eyes at him from the desk as he passed, as though he was walking through just to annoy her.

It was even colder outside than he had anticipated. He wrapped his arms around himself and sped up towards the balmy corridors of C block.

He couldn't help smiling to himself as he pushed the door open. He hadn't been there since the year before when John had almost mowed him down. The corridor was empty. No John blushing and apologetic, picking up his books for him.

He wandered down, thawing his hands off in his pockets. Around the corner, Hurst's English classroom door was open. Sherlock stared at it as he approached, wandering whether he found this weird or not.

As he got close, he could hear voices. He stopped short of the doorway. There was something about their tones that told him that it would be unwise to interrupt.

"You clearly left out something pretty damn important."

Sherlock froze where he was, eyes fixed on the slither of the classroom he could see through the doorway.

"I told you everything I know about him." Hurst's voice sounded strained. His usual wiry, composed tone was frayed.

There was a deafening thump. Sherlock jumped and flattened himself against the wall. It sounded like a desk had hit the floor.

"Stop  _lying_!" Jim's voice spat and Sherlock had no doubt that he had pushed the desk over. The teasing, melodic air to his voice was gone. If Sherlock had ever had any doubts that this side of Jim, this cold fury, hadn't been lingering just beneath the surface of his playful passive-aggression they would have vanished at this moment.

"Why the hell would I lie to you?" Hurst replied in the same frayed, taut voice.

Sherlock edged an inch closer to the door. He could hear Jim's expensive shoes squeaking on the linoleum as he fervently paced up and down. He couldn't have been more than a foot from the door. Sherlock could smell his cologne.

"I've been very reasonable." There was a dangerous softness to Jim's voice that sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. "I don't think you can deny that. I've asked so little of you. You've been keeping secrets, Hurst. Naughty secrets."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hurst replied coolly, a slight tremor betraying him.

Sherlock could see Jim's reflection in the glass of the door. His back clad in the school's jumper, his dark hair, and hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock realised with a pang that if Jim turned and happened to look at the door, he'd see Sherlock's face reflected in the glass. He moved very carefully to the right, away from the door. His shirt rustled against the wall, his heels squeaked on the floor and he abruptly stopped.

"Let me ask you once more," Jim said softly. Sherlock saw him walk across to the nearest desk, letting his pale fingers drift against the surface. "Who is it? Who's protecting him?"

"I don't know," Hurst replied through gritted teeth. "I've told you everything I know. Why not ask someone who actually knows him?"

"I tried that route," Jim replied, a touch of amusement coming into his voice. "It was fruitful while it lasted, but... Well, let's just say that I need someone who has a more professional association with him now."

There was silence. Jim turned to pace back up towards the door and Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He caught sight of Jim's face in the glass, but his eyes weren't on the door and he didn't see him. Sherlock thought it was only a matter of time before he did.

"You must have noticed who he spends time with," Jim said impatiently. "Who is he with? Who does he know?"

"No one," Hurst snapped. "No one! He's not exactly the school's most popular student. He's not popular. He doesn't have any friends and certainly no  _protector_."

" _Bullshit_!" Jim all but screamed. "You fucking tell me who he's with or I swear I'll-"

"I don't know what you want me to tell you!" Hurst shouted over the top of Jim's shrill voice. "I don't know who it is!"

Jim let out a frustrated hiss. "Fine. You want to play games. Let's play. I'll find out who it is sooner or later anyway. It would have been nice if you had been a pal, helped me out, saved your own worthless skin. But no. We'll play it this way."

Sherlock knew at any moment Jim was going to come marching through the door. He had to move or he would be caught in his path. He turned and darted back towards the next corridor. He heard Jim's footsteps behind him and pressed himself against the wall.

Jim slammed the classroom door with twice the amount of force necessary and it rattled furiously in the empty corridor. Sherlock realised too late that if Jim came his way, he'd be caught all the same, but by way of sheer dumb luck Jim walked in the opposite direction.

Sherlock released a long breath and leant his head back against the wall. Maybe he should have just walked straight past the classroom. Maybe he shouldn't have eavesdropped. But his curiosity had gotten the best of him.

He straightened up and headed back towards the dorms. He assumed he had to tell John what he had overheard. He knew it was about him. There was no question about that. There was no other explanation. There was no one else Jim had this amount of interest in. Marty was his puppet, but there was nothing else he wanted from the boy besides his bovine devotion.

He reached the dorms and knocked on John's door, assuming that whatever irritation he felt at Sherlock's abandoning him would be overridden by his curiosity to hear what Sherlock had to tell him. There was no answer. He had expected him to come running immediately, but it was clear after knocking three times that he wasn't going to answer.

"What the hell?" Sherlock muttered, pressing an ear to the door.

There was complete silence from within. No sounds of rustling bed covers or clothes, no betraying creaks of the floorboards. Total silence.

Sherlock took a step back. John wasn't particularly light-footed. It was obvious he wasn't inside. He turned and headed back to his original destination: the library.

He had a hunch John would have had a hunch that that was where he would be, and he was right. The library was very empty at this time of day on a Friday and John's blonde head was immediately recognisable at a table in the corner. There were two rather large books beside him. The play script was spread out in front of him.

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. John looked up as he approached. His facial expression didn't change, but his eyes flashed dangerously. Sherlock was secretly glad for the tidings he had to share to shift attention away from his sudden departure.

"Nice of you to join me," John said coldly, eyes drifting back down to the script.

"Don't sulk," Sherlock said, glancing at the books beside John. "I saw something."

John looked sharply at him. "Saw what?"

"Well, I heard something," Sherlock corrected himself.

He glanced around to make sure there wasn't anyone skulking about their table. The library was completely empty. He leant forward half an inch nonetheless.

"I heard Jim and Hurst talking."

John stared at him. "About what?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Me," he said finally, deciding to take the risk of John reacting badly.

John knitted his eyebrows. "Why would they be talking about you?" he said confusedly.

Sherlock didn't reply immediately. He didn't know whether he wanted to share his suspicions with John. He didn't know if he wanted to alarm him with what he thought he knew about Jim. John wasn't the most level-headed when it came to Sherlock's safety being threatened. And this could certainly be perceived as a threat to Sherlock's safety.

"I don't know," he said at length. He was already starting to regret his decision to tell John. He could tell from the look in his eyes that he wasn't about to let this go.

"Well, they must have been talking about something," he said impatiently. "Why the hell would Jim be talking to Hurst anyway?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I probably misheard it. It sounded like they were talking about... about our assignment." He improvised. "He was probably just getting Jim on the right track."

John cocked an eyebrow, looking far from convinced. Sherlock cleared his throat and jerked his head at one of the books. "What are those for?"

To his infinite relief and surprise John didn't argue and allowed the subject to be dropped. He picked one up and showed Sherlock the title.

"The Reign of Terror?" Sherlock said.

"We need a theme. Terror's a theme," John replied, putting it down again.

"Have fun fitting that into the storyline," Sherlock muttered, sitting back in his seat.

"Good thing I have you to help me," John said. He sent him a pointed look. "I want you to take it tonight and try and get some work done. I'd do it myself but... well, the team."

Sherlock nodded absently, without really hearing him. He had made the right decision not telling John what he had overheard. He would save him a lot of anxiety and concern. But he would be right to be concerned. If Jim knew that Sherlock had a protector among the student body, it wouldn't be long before he worked out just who it was.

\--

John pulled a clean shirt over his head and checked his reflection quickly in the mirror. It was a long time since he'd been out with the team; he wanted to look as though he remembered how to act like a teenage boy.

The game had gone well. Surprisingly well, seeing how many silly mistakes they had made. He thought that the final result: 3/0 to them was probably more a result of the opposing team being one of the worst on the table than any particularly brilliant playing of theirs. But John wasn't going to worry about it. He couldn't. There were too many others things to worry about.

He combed his hair quickly and sprayed himself with a little more deodorant and slipped into his coat.

The door opened and Billy shuffled in, engulfed in a voluminous sports coat and with his hair strategically tousled across his face in an attempt to hide the ant bites still peppered across most of it. John smiled sheepishly at him. Billy was still in no condition to play and as such wasn't invited out. He felt guilty, but there was no way he was risking his team thinking he'd become a complete bore just to keep Billy company.

"You going out?" he grunted, taking a heavy seat on his bed.

"Yeah," John said. "Just for a bit."

Billy made a gruff sound in his throat. "Good for you."

"Why don't you come with us?" John said bracingly. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind. You're on the team."

"Nah," Billy said. "The town's fucking boring anyway. It's not like I'd be missing out on much."

John shrugged with a small smile. "I guess not. I'll see you later then."

He left him to brood and went out into the corridor. Ben was emerging from Sherlock's room. John walked down to meet him, partly just so he could catch a glimpse of Sherlock.

He was too late. Ben shut the door before he could get to him. But it was likely that Sherlock wasn't in there anyway. He hadn't been particularly pleased that John was going out. John knew he had hoped for sex, but he also knew that Sherlock was aware that keeping up a facade of normality was paramount and going out with the team was important to avoid arousing suspicion.

"Ready, mate?" Ben said, smiling as he reached him. His hair was still wet from the shower.

"Yep, ready," John replied, glancing at the door over Ben's shoulder. He was extremely tempted to asking Ben whether Sherlock was inside, but he decided it would be wise not to unnecessarily mention his name.

"Any idea where we're going?" he asked, as they made their way down to the gates.

"Dunno. Just a party. Always one going on somewhere. Marty reckons he knows a guy who'll give us free booze," Ben replied, shrugging. "Probably bullshit, but it's better than club hopping all night."

John nodded. He thought it would be best if he didn't drink. He didn't need Sherlock's passive-aggressive comments the morning after. And recent events had made him rethink his attitude to getting shitfaced whenever alcohol happened to be available.

The rest of the team were waiting for them in a clump by the gates, already fairly vociferous and excitable in their hyperactive post-game state. John sought out Marty and saw him lurking at the back of the crowd.

John's eyes widened in surprise. He was standing next to Jim. Jim looked oddly out of place out of school uniform. He was wearing an expensive looking black coat and tapered dark jeans. His dark outfit made his milky skin almost glow.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Ben hissed into his ear.

John got the feeling he wasn't the only person wondering that. Questioning glances were being thrown in Marty and Jim's direction, though no one would dare openly question Marty's decision.

They headed off towards the town in a mob. John and Ben found themselves (by accident or not) walking close behind Marty and Jim. It was obvious that Ben wanted to say something and was barely resisting the temptation.

"How come Billy didn't end up coming out?" he said loudly to no one in particular.

"He didn't play," Marty said sharply, glancing at him over his shoulder.

"At least he's on the team," Ben snapped back. Marty looked at him, narrowing his eyes.

"I asked him to come out. He wouldn't," John said hastily, pointedly nudging Ben with his elbow.

"The last thing you need on a night out is a big pile of dead weight," Marty said in a sneering voice. John stared at him, wondering if he had misheard.

To his further surprise, there were titters from around him. He couldn't imagine how Billy's misfortune could be funny in any shape or form. Ben certainly wasn't laughing, but he got a feeling it was more from an increasing resentment of Marty than due to any indignant feelings on Billy's behalf.

John heard the party long before he saw it. There was a low, thumping bass making everything in the suburban street vibrate. The door was thrown open and it was deafening and smoky inside. John felt his cheeks burn as he walked inside. The last time he'd been at a house party, he'd found himself in a situation he definitely did not want to repeat.

Marty grasped the hand and slapped the back of who John could only suppose was the host. A man in his early twenties with greasy blonde hair and bad skin. He was clearly high as a kite and didn't seem to remember Marty or his friends, but he let them in jovially enough, encouraging them to drink whatever they could handle.

Ben and John exchanged a glance and wandered into the next room. It wasn't as crowded as he had expected and the people were definitely older. They seemed to be in their late teens and early twenties. The youngest girl there seemed to be about eighteen and John couldn't help but be relieved. Less chance of him being hit on or encouraged into an undesirable situation if the girls were too old to think him worth paying attention to.

For once in his life John was thankful for his short stature and youthful features.

"Where the hell did they disappear to?"

John jerked his head in Ben's direction. He was staring around behind them. Marty and Jim had disappeared. "Probably to check out the free alcohol," John said, he turned back to what he supposed was the living room by daylight. "Let's get a seat."

They managed to find a tiny corner of one of the sofas to cram themselves on, alongside a mixture of their teammates and the stoner's friends. Ben got himself a beer and John too, but John planned on making it last him all night. If he had a drink in his hand then his friends wouldn't try and palm one into his empty hand every time they saw him.

"Fucking Marty," Ben grumbled, just audible over the low, pulsing thump of the music. "I wish he'd tell us what the fuck is going on. He spends every goddamned minute with that fucking nutcase."

"Marty's a big boy," John replied. "He can take care of himself."

"You always have to be bloody diplomatic," Ben said, rolling his eyes and taking a sullen swig of his beer. "Don't you ever just want to hate someone because they're a tosser?"

"Sometimes," John said. He fiddled with his beer, scanning the gloomy living room with vague interest. "But Marty's a bigger tosser than Jim."

"Not these days," Ben said darkly. "He's just a bastard these days. You know it's Jim that's made him change. You can't deny that."

John shrugged. It was probably true. Moriarty probably was the reason Marty was so withdrawn, so quiet and so unlike his former obnoxious self, but perhaps there was something else going on in his life. It wasn't as though they knew everything there was to know about Marty. His parents could have been getting divorced, his brother could have been sent to prison, his cat could have died. Who knew what went on in the life of Marty Hester? He was the last person on earth who was going to divulge any personal information about himself. They had no choice but to trust that he knew what he was doing.

Privately, John couldn't help but bless Marty for deciding to turn so noticeably unlike his former self. It plucked the spotlight off of him and Sherlock so effectively. Well, Sherlock still suffered the same vicious abuse from his teammates and sneering dislike from the rest of the school, but Marty served to deflect at least some of it away.

"Want another?" Ben said, when he'd drained his first bottle.

John held up his still three quarters full beer. "I'm good."

Ben got up and headed back towards the esky in the corner. John noticed then that a girl on the sofa opposite was watching him. He pointedly avoided her eye. He was in no mood to fend off her unwanted attention while trying to explain to his friends just why he wasn't interested.

Ben arrived back, beer in hand. John silently prayed as he sat that he wouldn't notice the girl's sudden interest in him. "At least he found someone stupid enough to provide free booze."

John's beer bottle was sweating condensation all over his hands and creating a patch of wet on his trousers. He hastily rested it against his knee instead, not wanting to give anyone the impression he had wet himself. He took a reluctant sip. It was cold and crisp and he wanted to gulp down the whole bottle, but he forced himself to take just one mouthful.

"Hey," Ben said suddenly, nudging him in the ribs.

John jerked and slowly turned his head towards him. "Yeah?" He had a horrible feeling that he knew what he was about to say.

"That bird is looking at you," Ben said, a grin creeping across his face. His eyes were fixed on the girl opposite.

John sighed and grudgingly looked at her. She was at least twenty. But she wasn't half bad. He'd give her that. If he had liked girls, he certainly wouldn't have said 'no' to her. He looked sideways at Ben. "You, not me," he said.

Ben smiled sheepishly at him. "Do you think so?"

"Yeah," John said encouragingly. "Go for it. She's hot."

"You don't mind?" Ben said, already halfway out of his seat.

"Not at all," John said, shaking his head meaningfully. "Go for it. I'm happy here."

He fervently watched Ben approach her, watched her facial expression and how she received him and whether he was about to get rebuffed. She seemed surprised. It was obvious she had been watching John, not Ben, but she let him sit down and after a few last glances in John's direction seemed to warm to her new admirer. Soon they were deep in conversation and getting gradually and gradually closer to one another.

John grinned in triumph. If only he could always have Ben around to fob off on girls who happened to set their sights on him. He didn't know why any girl would want him over Ben anyway. He was at least a foot shorter than Ben, which he wasn't aware girls found that much of a turn on.

Soon Ben's hand had somehow migrated its way onto the girl's leg and then hers onto his shoulder and the next thing he knew John was unintentionally privy to his own peepshow. He watched as Ben leant forward and said something directly into the girl's ear. She smiled and nodded and he tugged her up out of her seat.

He smiled and winked at John as he passed. John rolled his eyes good-naturedly at him and watched them out of sight.

He sat by himself for a few minutes. He drained the remainder of his beer and avoided looking at anyone, in case he attracted further unwanted attention.

He couldn't say he was particularly enjoying himself. He couldn't see any of his teammates who weren't engaged in drunken arguments about football or hitting on women five years older than them. He was desperate for another drink, but he knew he had promised himself he'd stop at one.

Well, actually, that was a lie. He'd promised Sherlock he'd stop at one. That was a lie too. Sherlock had threatened to withdraw sex for three months if he even thought about getting drunk.

And he would know. He always knew.

It felt like hours before Ben finally returned, his clothes askew and his hair sticking up in several places. He squeezed back into his seat next to John, grinning sheepishly. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," John said, raising his eyebrows. "Have fun?"

"Fuck yeah," Ben said, still grinning. "Got a fag?"

John jerked and looked at him. "What?"

"A cigarette?" Ben said.

"Oh, no," John said, glad for the darkness obscuring his blush. "Sorry."

"No problem," Ben said, looking at him sideways. "I'll just get another beer."

He struggled out of his seat, stumbling a little as he stood and nearly losing his balance. John had a feeling he had shared more than a romantic interlude with his lady friend. Especially going by the strange smell on Ben's breath.

When he arrived back, John decided he wanted to go. "I might head off," he told Ben, as he sat down beside him.

"Aw, mate! It's still early!" he said. "Stay out a bit longer."

"Nah, I might find Marty and say I'm heading out," John said, getting to his feet. He had pins and needles in his arse and legs from sitting down for so long.

"Alright, you boring old man," Ben said reluctantly. "See you tomorrow I guess."

John threaded his way through the crowd towards the door. He dropped his bottle into a bin on his way out. He found a few of his friends hanging in the hallway, who informed him that Marty had disappeared upstairs some half an hour earlier and hadn't come down. This was accompanied by knowing leers and nudges among themselves.

John had been to enough parties to know what the upper floor of the house was usually reserved for. He didn't particularly want to see Marty in the altogether, but he braved the possibility anyway, heading upstairs and casting a look around the much sparser crowd on the landing.

He started checking bedrooms, earning himself a few indignant cries from the people inside. He could tell from their figures and their voices that it wasn't Marty. He reached the last room on the landing and opened the door haphazardly, not expecting to find anything but a horny couple entwined on the bed.

"Oh my Go-"

He covered his mouth to silence himself, biting hard on his finger. He'd only open the door halfway, but he could see two boys violently entwined against the closest wall. He could hear whimpers, gasps, grunts, the sound of bodies hitting the wall again and again.

John went rigid where he was. His heart was beating so hard he couldn't think. In front of his eyes he watched as pale fingers threaded through the taller figure's blonde hair. There was a breathless gasp.

John took a step back without being aware of what he was doing. The floorboard squeaked. The music seemed to hit his ears louder and deeper than ever. He yanked the door shut in front of him and turned on his heel. He didn't know whether they had seen him. He didn't stop to find out.

He walked down the stairs, through the hallway and out into the bitter cold. He didn't stop to think, he didn't stop to remember. He kept walking.

\--

Sherlock had been surprised to find John knocking on his door at two in the morning and immediately assumed that he was shitfaced and horny. He prepared to tell him that he wouldn't be getting sex for six months for being such an idiot, when a very sober John hastily brushed past him.

"Close the door," he said sharply.

Sherlock did as he was told, stunned into obedience by John's brusque tone. "Is everything alright?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he closed the door and turned to his agitated boyfriend.

"I just..." John faltered, biting his lip. Sherlock loved it when he did that. "I was just at a party."

"You don't say?" Sherlock said. "The stench of booze and cigarettes was so subtle, I could never have guessed."

John didn't laugh. He paced across the floor, running a hand through his hair and loosening the buttons on his jacket. "I saw something."

"Yeah?" Sherlock said, still not able to guess where this was leading. Though he hoped it lead to John removing more items of clothing. "What?"

"Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I didn't see what I thought I did." John seemed to be talking more to himself than to him.

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows. "Maybe you should sit down."

"I'm fine!" John burst out, whirling towards him. "I saw something really weird. I'm... just... just freaking out a bit."

"They didn't show that movie  _Glitter_ , did they?" Sherlock said drily. "I can understand your shellshock, but trust me the pain does eventually fade."

The corners of John's mouth jerked, but he didn't laugh. "Look. What would you say if I told you... I told you that I think Marty... might be... might be..." He rolled the word around in his mouth, it seemed to take every muscle in his body for him to speak again. "Gay."

Sherlock stared at him. He didn't know whether to laugh at John's solemn expression or check his forehead for fever. "John. Are you alright? You didn't take anything at that party, did you? I really think you should lay down." He smirked. "Maybe take your clothes off while you're at it."

John flushed. "Would you listen to me! I saw Marty- Marty  _Hester_ \- kissing... kissing... Jim Moriarty," he finished lamely.

Sherlock shook his head. "It was dark. It was loud. You could have seen anyone."

"I didn't imagine what I saw," John snapped, beginning to pace again. "I just don't understand. I just don't get it. Marty is as straight as they come. He fucking hates gays! And Jim... Well, I don't know. What does he want with Marty?"

Sherlock watched him silently. The thought that Marty Hester would be romantically involved with another boy wasn't so incredible to him as it might have been. Marty was loud in his disparagement of gays; that didn't mean he hadn't thought about being with another boy at least once in his life. Few people went through life without such curiosities and desires bobbing to the surface sooner or later.

But with Jim Moriarty. That was the unnerving part. What could brilliant, psychopathic Jim Moriarty want with the loudmouthed, vain, unsubtle Marty Hester? What could Marty see in Jim that made him risk everything for an encounter in the same house as the people who would destroy him if they came across it? Marty was damned lucky it had been John who found them and not someone else. Sherlock resented such undeserved good luck.

"He was probably horny and drunk and Jim happened to be there," he said, to appease John's increasingly distressed expression. "What's the big deal?"

"I just can't believe it," John said, sitting slowly down on Sherlock's bed. "All this time, all this shit he gave us, all of his bile and hatred and he can get it off with a boy anytime he wants no sweat? Fucking bastard."

"Don't let it get to you. He's probably suffering," Sherlock said, with relish. "He's probably feeling as disgusted and hateful towards himself as he does towards me."

"And Jim? Do you think he'll use it against Marty?" John said, looking at him anxiously.

Sherlock hesitated. There was a part of him that suspected that tonight had not been the first time Jim and Marty had been close. He didn't know whether telling that to John would be wise. He didn't know whether telling John that Jim's ambitions were far greater than just humiliating Marty Hester was a good idea either. "I don't think so," he said finally. "Jim wouldn't want to draw attention to the fact that he's the one Marty's shag- eh, with."

The colour drained from John's face. "You think they're having sex?"

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Of course not. I'm sure they're waiting until they're married like good little private school boys."

John stared at him and then the floor. "God. Just fuck. Marty and Jim. What the fucking hell, Sherlock? How is this fair?"

"Don't think about it," Sherlock said quietly, sitting next to him on the bed and resting a hand on John's waist. "Maybe it was just a kiss. We all get desires now and again."

John looked up at him. His blue eyes sometimes took Sherlock's breath away and it was like they were living six months ago and Sherlock was still secretly, desperately burning for John and not entwined in the most complicated relationship in the world with him. "Do you desire..." He faltered, not finishing his sentence.

Sherlock understood what he'd been about to ask. "No," he said easily. "I've never desired another like I desire you. Certainly not since I met you. I'm not a very sexual being."

John snorted. "Could have fooled me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "So what about you? You have?"

John stopped laughing very quickly. "Of course not."

"You've never desired another person? Ever?" Sherlock said dubiously. He found it hard to believe. He had seen John around town with girls back when they hadn't known each other and John had been heterosexual.

"Yeah. I thought I was attracted to girls," John admitted. He flopped down onto his back on Sherlock's bed, sliding his legs across Sherlock's lap. "I think I was. Or maybe not. I dunno. It's hard to imagine being attracted to anyone who isn't you."

Sherlock felt himself warm at those words. He coughed away his gratification. "You weren't attracted to Mycroft?"

John gave a bodily jolt. "No!" He jerked his head up at him. "Is that what you think?"

It wasn't the response of someone who was lying. Especially not John, who was a terrible, clumsy liar. He smiled smugly. "Just what I wanted to hear." He crawled over John, resting a knee between his legs and brushing the stray strands of hair from his face. "Besides who in their right mind could fall for  _Mycroft_."

"Well, it certainly makes it difficult when he has such a attractive and slutty younger brother," John murmured, with a smile. He took Sherlock's hips in his hands, pulling the taller, smaller body down against his. "We should have sex."

Sherlock laughed, leaning down to nuzzle John's nose with his. "You sound like you're giving a diagnosis. Is that your professional opinion, doctor?"

He half expected John to balk at the playful medical reference, but he blushed and smiled and looked very much like the odd bad medical joke wouldn't harm his libido. He unzipped John's jumper slowly, enjoying planting teasingly soft kisses against the sensitive skin just beneath the curve of John's jaw and the little gasps it extracted from his lips. Underneath, his torso was imprinted against his t-shirt.

Sherlock tossed the jumper away and returned to ravishing John's neck with increasingly deep, suckling kisses. He knew he couldn't get too fervent. If he left love bites on John's neck- as much as he  _loved_  watching John sitting in class with the angry red marks all over him, branding him as Sherlock's- his friends were liable to notice and ask awkward questions and he couldn't trust that John would be able to think of a convincing excuse.

"Will we be able to do this before Ben gets back?" John gasped, clutching Sherlock's shoulders as he attacked his collarbone.

"I should think so," Sherlock grinned, looking up at him. "I took his key."

"Sherlock!" John said indignantly.

Sherlock leant up on his knees, hastily tugging his jumper over his head. "Oh, relax. I'm not going to let him sleep in the hallway."

Though he had to admit that if the boy was stupid enough to attempt to interrupt his copulation with John, he probably would.

However, Ben didn't return until four hours later and by then John had long since returned to his room. And by that time, Sherlock had already taken him slowly and heatedly on his back with his legs wrapped tight around Sherlock's waist and his hands so deeply buried in Sherlock hair he was in danger of pulling out handfuls of it in his enthusiasm.

\--

Sherlock was certain Jim had put Marty up to it. On emerging from his room the next morning, still dressed in the clothes he had fallen asleep in sprawled across the covers of his bed the night before, he was immediately cornered by the taller, brassy haired boy and shoved unceremoniously into his own door by the collar.

There were no insults this time, no threats. Marty's expression was hard to read and that was saying something. He was usually such a blandly easy person to read. Even easier than John. Everything he felt was magnified across his handsome features. Today there was nothing. His eyes could have been sockets for all Sherlock could see.

With one hand wrapped in his collar, Marty yanked Sherlock's bag out of his hand. He roughly let him go and then set about rifling through the contents. He could have been a policeman searching for drugs, the way he ripped open the pockets, emptying Sherlock's pencil case onto the corridor floor and never looking up or speaking once.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Sherlock said at length, staring at him.

This new, silent Marty was beginning to unnerve him. Part of him wanted to bring up Jim Moriarty just to see the boy's face turn colour and draw something out of him. It gave him an amused twinge to think that this boy, this arrogant, selfish, thoughtless boy, was in the same situation as he was. He had given into his desires towards a member of the same sex and now he was tainted for life. If his friends knew, no matter what excuse he gave, he would be outcast from their ranks forever. Faggotry, no matter how brief, was not to be tolerated.

Finally, he stood and dropped Sherlock's bag like a stone. He was holding the play script. Sherlock's heart stood still. He almost spoke. "Oh God. Oh God, please not that" almost left his lips. But begging Marty was never a good idea. He despised weakness. It just made him even more vile.

"And what's this, fag?" he said, his voice bland and flat. "Your diary? Got all your sick little fantasies planned out?"

"That's John's and my English assignment," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

The ghost of a smirk crossed Marty's mouth. "Is that so?" He gripped a random page in his fist and tore it. The sound was like a gun shot. Sherlock couldn't see how Marty could have planned to hurt John and injure Sherlock any more perfectly.

He tore the page in two and set about more. Three and then four and then five. He tore them with cold, calculated disregard. Sherlock watched on in numb fury. And growing hatred. Fuck this boy. Fuck this boy's feelings. This boy's misery. Fuck him. He deserved none of Sherlock's pity. This hypocrite. This dirty, hateful hypocrite. Sherlock couldn't breathe.

"That's John's work," he spat. "John did all of that."

"Then I guess you'll have to think of some excuse for how it ended up in fourteen pieces," Marty sneered, dropping the ruined script onto the floor. "You're clever, fag. I'm sure you'll think of something-"

Sherlock had moved before his brain had entirely realised what he was doing. The next thing he was aware of was terrible pain in his knuckle. He staggered back, realising in a confused rush of triumph and shock what he had done.

Marty lost his balance against the wall opposite and stumbled down, blood pouring from his nostrils and bottom lip. His eyes were wide, his bloodied mouth was open. The surprise seemed too great for him to even comprehend what had happened.

"You... you..." he spluttered, a bubble of spit and blood appearing between his lips. "You... fucking..."

He was panting. Sherlock stared at him and then knelt down to pick up the fallen pieces of John's play. He heard someone approaching and didn't look up.

A hand gripped his hair and he was painfully hauled to his feet. The first punch hit him in the cheek. It was a different pain to being hit in the nose or mouth. It was a deeper, aching sensation. It felt like his bones had been cracked from under his skin. There'd be bruises tomorrow.

Marty's fist was about to hit him again when a sharp voice sounded: "Hester. Enough."

For a wild moment, Sherlock thought it was a teacher but when the world stopped spinning and he could focus on the person next to him, he realised just who it was. "Not you," he hissed.

Jim smiled, his eyes glinting. "Tsk tsk, Holmes. Fighting in the corridor. That's naughty."

His eyes turned coldly onto Marty. "Let go and get out."

Marty did as he was told, letting go of Sherlock's collar like he had been stung and stumbling back. He wordlessly turned and walked away to the end of the hall.

"Oh, you have him well-trained," Sherlock said softly, trying not to be impressed.

"Don't I just?" Jim said, circling him with a delighted laugh. "He's a good little pet. Likes to please me. He really gets off on authority that one does. You should see how he grovels to me. Oh, he just loves to get down on his hands and knees for me."

Sherlock tutted. "I don't want to know. It's cruel of you to abuse that idiot's trust."

Jim smirked. "You don't care about that boy any more than I do. You'd like to see him dead." He stopped, snapping his fingers. "There's an idea! Want me to, Sherlock? You do. Think about that witless Neanderthal lying dead. Doesn't it make your mouth water?"

He was so close now; Sherlock could smell the toothpaste on his breath. He could see each of his individual eyelashes, dark and long around his eyes.

"You're sick," he said softly, to stop himself from examining anymore of the features etched into Jim's pale face.

The corners of Jim's mouth shuddered. "Do you think so?"

He glanced down at the play clutched in Sherlock's hand. In one swift movement, he had snatched it from him, slicing the inside of Sherlock's fingers. "Give it back," Sherlock snarled, making a pathetic grab for it.

Jim stepped back, his eyes positively dancing with glee. "Oh! But why were you so damn angry about dearest Marty ruining this old thing? Surely you weren't attached to it? Not my clever Sherlock. Not attached to some ratty, badly written old rag. Surely not. So... so what is it? What makes this so damned special?"

He looked up at him, grinning widely. "Oh, my. John Watson. Oh my."

Sherlock's blood went cold. His throat felt like it had sealed itself. He snatched the play back, but Jim let him take it. He had what he needed.

"This is just too perfect," Jim breathed, staring at him with a mixture of wonder and leering mockery. "You and that simpering, simple-minded bovine creature?  _Oh._  This is better than  _porn_."

He turned on his heel with a wild, almost manic laugh. "This just too beautiful!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, stuffing the ruined play in his bag. "Leave him out of it. This is between you and me."

Jim turned to him, the grin was gone but his eyes were dancing with poisonous glee, positively glowing at the Ace card he now held. "Oh, but it's all about him! Don't you see?"

He took a step towards him, closing the space between them again. Sherlock hastily jerked back and found himself against the wall. Jim's eyes raked his ruffled clothes with an almost hungry expression.

"Did you sleep with him last night? Did you fuck him? Oh, I think you did. If I smelt your clothes, if I inhaled them I'd smell him, wouldn't I? His sweat, his deodorant, his  _fluids-"_

"Shut up," Sherlock spat, a hand finding its way around Jim's collar.

Jim leant up towards him, the smirk dancing in every feature of his face. "So violent. What will I do with you?" He laughed. "Even better. What will I do with John Watson?"

Sherlock let go of him and shoved him away. He wordlessly walked away down the corridor. Jim's laugh reached his ears, cold and cynical. Sherlock could feel the dismay dribbling through him as he walked towards the library to meet John.

He found him in the same seat he had sat in the day before, books about The Reign of Terror again on the desk in front of him. He smiled at Sherlock as he reached the table and Sherlock's heart ached at the prospect of what he had to do.

"Morning!" he said, clearing the books. "Sleep well?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He sat down slowly, sliding a hand into his bag. "John... I..." he faltered. His hand was on the play. "I..."

"Are you alright?" John said, frowning. "You look pale."

Sherlock released a slow breath and dug the play out. He laid it on the table, ruined and torn and thoroughly destroyed. "He knows. Jim knows about us."

John just looked at him and Sherlock saw the panic pool and cloud in his eyes like blood into water.

_End of Chapter Twenty-Three_


	24. Chapter 24

"Are you ok, mate?"

John started where he was. He looked around at Ben. He was watching him with one eyebrow raised. There was a muddy football perched against his hip.

"I'm fine," John mumbled, rubbing his neck against the cold.

He glanced around the forlorn spread of his team. Marty was sitting on the dewy bench, his head rested in his hands and his back hunched. Billy was still out of action and hadn't come to the game at all.

"It's not over," Ben said, from close next to him. "We can still come back."

John just nodded. He knew it was doubtful at best. They were three goals down and the way his team was playing was uninspiring at best. They weren't used to having to actually  _try_  for victory and it hadn't taken long for them to spiral down into a dejected sulk when it became clear that the opposing team wasn't going to just lay down and hand it to them.

"I don't know how this happened," he said quietly, turning away from them.

"There were always cracks in the team," Ben said in a low voice, almost directly into his ear. He clearly was not keen for the team to overhear his treachery. "Too confident, not disciplined enough. Relied too heavily on Billy's ability to barrel anyone out of his way. And Marty..." He glanced over his shoulder to the bowed bronze head. "Well, he's thrown his lot in with Moriarty."

John touched his neck again. He could feel goosebumps rising on his arms underneath his football uniform. "What are we going to do?" he said heavily, resting his forehead against his palm.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ben look sideways at him. "You know what people are saying, don't you?"

He said it gently. There was almost a trace of pity in his tone and John looked sharply at him. "What?"

Ben swallowed slowly and glanced over his shoulder again with an uncomfortable shrug. "You know what they're like. They want to win, John. You don't know what they'd be capable of if they were desperate enough."

John watched him in silence. No, he did know. He knew very well what they would do. Loyalty, friendship; it meant nothing to them. They only wanted to protect their image, their pride. John meant nothing to them.

"Well, I'm still the captain," he said in a hard voice. "We'll play by my rules until that changes."

Ben sent him a dubious look and said nothing.

John turned back to his team. He ran an eye along the mud splattered, damp figures in their miserable black and red. Marty still hadn't moved, his face was obscured by his hands.

"Guys," John said, irritably conscious of the hesitation to his voice. His usual easiness when speaking with his team seemed difficult for him to grasp for the first time in his life. "Guys!" Almost no one looked up, and those who did spared him only sparing glances. It was almost as though they had made a silent pact to mutually ignore him. "Would you sit up straight and stop sulking?" he snapped, losing his patience more rapidly than he was used to.

It didn't have an overwhelming response. A few of them stirred from their limp positions on the damp grass and bench, but many did not. To his surprise Marty looked at him, his face was flushed and his eyes were narrowed. John looked at him and then back at the rest of the team.

"I know this isn't how we wanted things to go," he said, propping his hands on his hips. He could see Ben staring at him, but he didn't look at him. "But we can still equalize or even win if we just keep concentrating. We can't break down now."

There were mumbles. Very few of them seemed to even be listening to him. He felt a pang of annoyance.

"If we had Pip, this wouldn't be happening," one of them mumbled.

Marty looked very sharply at who had spoken, but said nothing. John rubbed his forehead with a silent sigh.

Halftime ended much too quickly and soon he was walking back onto the damp field, and starting to shiver inside his uniform. The parents were watching on, pale faced and scowling. John glanced at them, but he couldn't see any Redverse students among them. They seemed to have abandoned their team to their humiliation.

John didn't think his hollow speech had done much to bolster his team's confidence and when they began playing his suspicion was proved correct. There was a heavy listlessness in all of them that seemed almost beyond the normal bounds of dejection.

Even Ben, usually flawless in his goalkeeping, missed a goal, bringing the score to 4-0. The only player who seemed to possess any of his usual spirit was Marty. Curiously, he seemed more alive on the field than when he was off it. He took control of the ball early and seemed possessed by an intense, almost bitter determination as he made his way roughly for the goal.

John watched as he shot it powerfully into the net and his team, for the first time that evening, seemed to be jolted back to life. They swarmed around Marty's tall, well-built figure, slapping him eagerly on the back. He did very little in response to their congratulations. He stared around with an almost fierce defiance, his eyes settling on John, his nostrils flaring.

John nodded at him across the field, but Marty made no sign that he had seen him. He was still in the midst of his teammates. John watched him turn his back on him. Marty's usual parade of self-congratulatory gloating was conspicuously absent.

The other boys dispersed, and it seemed that Marty's goal had injected some spirit into his wilting team. Despite this, John felt uneasy. There was something very different in Marty's manner and he could shake the feeling that Ben's allusions to him were based on more than just resentment towards his relationship with Moriarty.

He cringed into the cold darkness. "Relationship". It sounded like the absolute wrong word to apply to whatever was going on between Marty and Jim. He wiped away the sweat from his top lip with the sleeve of his shirt and stared across to where Marty was making another reckless dash for the goal, the same stony expression on his face.

What he had seen the night of the party had been burning in his mind day after day. It was quickly consuming every other thought, every other concern. Sherlock seemed to think that doing nothing was more than appropriate, but John itched with uneasy curiosity.

But, they had their own problems now. John sighed, watching his breath thicken the air with smoke.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts he didn't see the opposing team's striker until he was almost level with him.

"John!" someone hollered. He didn't see who.

The ball sailed past him and bounced off the goalpost nearest to him. It hurtled towards him and hit him squarely in the chest. He let out a surprised grunt as he was thrown backwards and off his feet.

He felt his arse land in the soggy grass and the water seeped rapidly through the material and through his underwear. He hastily scrambled to his feet, his cheeks burning at the muffled laughter. He didn't look at the perpetrators. He was almost afraid to see whose team they were on.

He looked sideways to where Marty was, but he wasn't looking at him. John shrugged off the referee and prepared to take the throw-in. He felt a hand on his wrist. He looked up and stared into the face of one of his players. A red-haired, freckled boy called Samuel.

"I'll take it," he said, and it wasn't a suggestion.

John limply allowed him to take the ball from him. He felt like he was in a fog as he watched him throw it in. He knew it was the worst possible moment, but he could feel the panic beginning to sink into him and he thought he might freeze where he was standing.

The rest of the game passed in a heavy blur. He knew they were losing. Marty's goal hadn't been enough to drive them through to victory, but it had taken the sting off a complete humiliation. At the end of the game, he turned and walked back towards the bench, not waiting for the usual formalities of shaking the opposing team's hands and rounding up his team.

He felt almost nauseous with uneasiness. He gulped down water from his plastic water bottle, squirting some into his hands and spraying his face and neck liberally. He felt it seep into his collar. He could feel the seat of his pants were soaking wet and probably covered in mud.

He wiped away the water and cold sweat from his brow with a heavy sigh.

"That could have gone better."

John turned as Ben appeared next to him. He shrugged offhandedly, not wanting to be reminded of his failure. His humiliation. His inability to lead his own team.

Somehow he had always been able muster the false enthusiasm, the drive and motivation needed to excel at football. He didn't know where he found the ability to do it, but he had. But now, he couldn't. He just couldn't. It wasn't a matter of not wanting to, it was a physical incapability to carry on the farce any longer.

"We're a laughing stock," John mumbled. He pulled his kit bag onto his shoulder and turned towards where the parents were gathered along the sideline.

His team were moving sluggishly towards the benches, heads down and exchanging disbelieving shakes of their heads. The group of parents, once so overwhelming in its size and overconfident dedication to their sons and team, seemed to be shrinking week by week. No one seemed to want to support a losing team. A team of losers. It was easy when they had been winners, but now it was difficult and embarrassing and they'd rather just stay away.

"John." He felt Ben's hand on his arm. He stopped, letting the dark-haired boy pull him around to face him. He was in no mood to resist. Ben looked hurriedly over his shoulder and then back at him. "I'm telling you this because you're my friend, the others... they..."

He cut off abruptly, his eyes resting on something over John's shoulder. John sensed the person before their heavy hand rested on his shoulder. He jerked, but didn't turn.

"Mr. Watson," Ben said, taking a hasty step back.

"Evening, Ben," John's father's curt voice said, close to John's ear. "Shame about the game."

"Oh, yeah," Ben said, shuffling uncomfortably and glancing quickly at John. "I better... my parents..." He gestured vaguely towards the crowd.

John nodded. Ben grimaced apologetically at him and turned and scurried away towards the crowd. John exhaled softly and pulled himself out of his father's grip. He turned to face him. His father was dressed in a pinstripe suit that made him look very square of figure and had his sandy hair combed to one side.

"John, we should talk."

John shrugged. "What about?"

The hand returned to his shoulder and tightened. "This is no time for jokes." He began to steer him away from the field and floodlights towards the stairs to the changing rooms. John didn't struggle; he had no will to struggle. He was tired of struggling.

"What the hell are you playing at?"

As soon as they were out of earshot of the other parents, his father's voice fell to a hoarse growl. The hand was still clamped onto John's shoulder, painfully tight.

"I'm told it's called football," John replied dully.

His father jerked his head towards him with a snarl. "You have to start taking this fucking seriously. What the hell is going on in that goddamned team? What the fuck do you think you're doing? You think that this is just a game? Just a joke? Your place in this school relies on this, John. Your place in this  _world_  relies on this. You want to be a loser? A nobody? Keep going the way you're going and it will fucking well happen."

He lapsed into silence. John listened silently to his tirade. They were at the stairs now and it was dark. He almost tripped on the first step, but he felt his father yank him up by his shirt, effectively dragging him up.

"What do you want me to say?" John said quietly, as they reached the courtyard where the changing rooms were. "I've done everything I can do."

His father shook his head, his hands dropping down from his shoulder. John inwardly swore at himself for pathetically regretting the loss of his father's hand on him, even when it was twisted painfully into his shirt.

"You clearly haven't or these problems wouldn't be happening," his father said. He yanked a cigarette from his coat pocket, where John could see his packet was crammed inside. He lit it, his fingers trembling gently in the darkness. "You don't seem to realise what's at stake."

"What is?" John said impatiently. "People keep alluding to things, hinting to things but they never tell me exactly what the hell is going on. What's going to happen?"

His father took a drag and turned his head to exhale into the cold air beside him. "You'll be overturned as captain."

He said it so shortly, that John thought he had misheard. He stared at him. A cold trickle seemed to run through his veins from his temples to his ankles. He couldn't think. He couldn't move.

"What?" his mouth mechanically formed.

His father's reply was swallowed by a series of harsh coughs. He cleared his throat, wiping his mouth up the arm of his coat. "You heard me," he said hoarsely, flicking his barely touched cigarette to the ground and pressing the toe of his shoe into it. "It might be too late."

John stared at him. The words seemed to have a different meaning, seemed not to be penetrating his mind. The thought that the team who, three months ago, couldn't piss without asking his say-so were planning mutiny behind his back was almost as laughable as it was desperately hurtful.

He shook his head and moved to turn his back on his father. "No. That's bullshit. They would never-"

His father's hands gripped the back of his shirt and he found himself yanked backwards and then thrust against the nearby wall of the changing rooms. The wall was wet and extremely cold. One of his father's hands was pinned into his chest; the other was balled up in his shirt. He stared at his father's mostly dark obscured face, panting.

"What the hell are you doing?"

His father gave a low snarl and pushed him harder against the wall. John narrowly managed to avoid hitting the back of his head against the bricks. "You think this is bullshit? You think what I'm telling you is bullshit?" he spat venomously.

"Dad," John gasped, as the hand around his shirt tightened it almost into a noose around his throat. "You're... h-hurting me-"

"You want to throw it all away? Your future? Your potential?" John gripped his father's hand, trying fruitlessly to untangle it from its tightening position on his shirt. "You screw this up for m- for _us_  you might as well not come home. Do you hear me?"

John didn't speak. His ears were ringing. His throat was burning. He thought he might pass out.

His father gave him a sharp shake. "Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," John managed to say, with a gasp.

His father watched him silently for a moment, his eyes shielded by darkness. John stared back at him, too stunned to feel anything. It was like he had been punched in the jaw and was too in shock to feel the pain.

His father's hands finally loosened and released him. He could feel his skin was bruised from where his father's hand had been pressed into his chest. His father straightened his coat with a gruff cough.

John didn't move, though he could feel the cold, wet wall beginning to seep through his kit. It felt like they stood there for hours in the dark and silence, listening to the distant sounds from the football pitch. John didn't look at his father; he watched the moths swarming around the nearby light post.

At length he heard voices and footsteps on the stairs and knew his team was coming up to use the changing rooms. He hastily straightened up, dusting down his filthy uniform.

His father slowly turned to where John was staring. The heads of his team appeared. Ben was at the front, Marty was nowhere to be seen. John walked forward to meet them, not looking at his father as he passed him.

"Hey," he said quietly to Ben, conscious of the eyes on him and the coldness in their faces as they looked at him. Or maybe he was imagining it.

"Hi," Ben said, with a small, pitying smile.

By the time John turned back to his father, he was already retreating into the darkness. John didn't go after him. He went into the changing rooms with his team. He threw his kit bag onto the grimy bench and peeled his dripping shirt off of him. He hadn't felt so dirty, so damp in a long time.

He glanced at himself in the mirror nailed to the wall above the sinks. Mud was smeared across his arse and legs. It would have been funny if the atmosphere in the changing rooms hadn't been akin to a public execution.

They were all almost fully dressed by the time Marty appeared. He was fiercely flushed and had leaves in his hair and clinging to the back of his uniform, as though he had been on his back in dry undergrowth. John tried not to stare, tried not to think how those scratches on Marty's neck had got there.

Marty stood close to John at the head of the long bench. He let his bag slip from his shoulder with a loud thump. Everyone looked up.

John glanced at them and saw them plainly for the first time. He saw the way they stared at Marty, that mixture of awe and admiration in their eyes. Even Ben, who so staunchly insisted he thought Marty was an idiot, now looked at him with something different. Something uncertain. Marty now commanded something more than mere idiotic charisma. He had power. And John was certain he knew who had given him the ability to take that power.

"So?" he said. He spoke so seldom now that every word he said had a drive behind it that no one could deny or ignore. "Are we going to speak about the mess tonight or just pretend like nothing happened?"

John watched him and realised abruptly that he too was hovering at the sidelines like another of Marty's cronies. For the first time in his life he felt his natural position threatened. He took a step forward. Marty looked at him, but with such withering dismissal that irritation stirred in John's stomach.

"Marty? Do you have something to say?" he snapped.

Marty's eyes settled coldly on him again, the same mocking disregard lurking in his gaze. "Maybe I do. Maybe I'm sick of being humiliated day in and day out. This team used to be the best on the table." His voice gave a betraying tremble.

John glanced around his team, some were staring fixedly at Marty, others' eyes were darting between them as though unable to decide who was most captivating to watch. "There were always cracks in the team, but it's nothing we can't fix. Billy will be back within the next week-"

"We need much more than that overgrown fuckwit," Marty retorted.

"Then what?" John burst out in frustration. "New players? More practices?  _What_?"

Marty looked at him coldly and didn't reply. John looked back at him, determined not to falter under his gaze, but feeling like he was staring into the sun.

"He's right," one of the others finally piped up. "We're sick to fucking death of losing. This can't go on until the end of the season."

There were mumbles of agreement from the rest. Marty's eyes flashed in triumph.

"But who's fault is it?" another of them snapped. "Fucking Billy's for being such a pussy and not playing!"

"No way," another retorted. "It's the defenders. Fucking useless."

"Shut your face. You don't know shit."

"You can't play for shit. You might as well just lie down and let them fuck you the way you're playing."

"That's bullshit!"

John massaged his forehead with his fingers, not turning to watch the predictable scuffle break out. There were yells from the other team member's as they hurried to wrench them apart. Marty watched on calmly, his arms folded. He gave off the aura of a doctor surveying the ravages of a disease only he had the cure to.

"And how do you suggest we fix this?" John asked him quietly, as the ruckus behind him died down again.

"Yeah, how precisely do we fix it?" Ben said angrily, his old resentment of Marty resurfacing through his reluctant admiration.

Marty laughed shortly. "We cut out the weak link."

He added nothing to that statement. For a long time nobody spoke. Marty picked up his bag and went into the nearest shower. The sound of the water filled the brick chamber.

John knew they were all thinking the same thing. He could almost feel the pulse of the others' thoughts directed towards him.

He picked up his kitbag and walked out into the quiet cold of the night. He knew they would talk about him when he left, but he preferred that to standing there and knowing that he was the cause of the silence. The tension.

He was halfway to the school doors when he noticed someone lurking just beyond the light streaming out of the glass. He knew instinctively who it was; he recognised the figure, the movements.

When he neared them, he stopped on the stairs, clutching his kitbag strap tighter in his hand. "What are you doing?"

Jim stepped out of the gloom, a smirk flashing across his face like a car's headlight passing in the dark. "Waiting for my friend," he said, derision dripping from every word. "That's allowed isn't it,  _captain_?"

He was looking him up and down again, the same way he had on the first day they had met. But then there had been dismissal and disinterest in his look, now there was something else. Something cold and delighted, like an animal surveying its much weaker, hapless prey.

John shivered and took a step up the stairs so he at least had a slight advantage of height over him. "Whatever you're planning-"

Jim laughed melodically over him. " _Planning?_ Ooh, you make it sound so  _naughty_. So dark. Do you like bad boys, John? Is that it? Do they turn you on?"

He stepped towards him, biting his lip mockingly. "You can tell me, Johnny. I won't tell anyone. Do they make you..." He rolled the word around in his mouth like he was tasting it. " _Hard?"_

John could feel every hair on his body pricking up in disgust and alarm. "Stop your fucking mindfuck games-"

Jim made a sound like a growl and a moan. " _Oh._ But being mindfucked by me feels  _good_ , doesn't it? You want me to mindfuck you all night  _long_  until you can't stand it."

John gritted his teeth, he jerked towards him. He was so close to gripping the sneering viper's clothes and throwing him as hard as he could to the ground, but he stopped himself. It would give Jim too much satisfaction to see how furious his depraved, mocking "flirting" made him.

"Stay away from us. Or I will make you regret it," he said in a low voice, fixing his eyes on Jim's dark, dancing gaze.

Jim grinned. "Oh, there we go. That sweet, little  _fighting spirit._ I would be disappointed if you didn't at least put up  _something_  like a fight," he said, offhandedly examining his nails. "I'll enjoy breaking you, John. It'll be fun." He looked at him, with a playful kiss into the air. "It'll feel  _good_."

John turned away and headed into the school, goosebumps covering every inch of his uncovered skin.

\--

Sherlock stared at the screen of his mobile phone. The default grey screen was blank. It had been blank for the past week. And it was odd.

It was difficult to ignore the fact that since receiving his phone back from John there had not been a single, solitary call or message from his brother. It was even more difficult not to wonder why they had stopped. His brother wasn't one to back down when he had decided he was going to do something. Sherlock could imagine that he had employed someone to make the calls on his behalf. Mycroft was far too busy to employ himself dedicatedly to the pursuit of harassing his brother.

But that didn't explain the sudden and abrupt silence. He couldn't possibly have achieved what he set out to achieve. Unless irritating his brother had been his one and only goal. Sherlock found that hard to believe. Mycroft may have been many things, but he wasn't petty.

He slipped it back into his pocket. He had other problems now. Mycroft wasn't at the top of the list of his concerns. As interesting as the sudden silence was, he knew he couldn't dwell on it.

He had taken to arriving at classes earlier than usual. He stood among his peers by the bag racks and listened. He listened to their idiotic chatter and waited for some sign that they knew of him and John. But if anything, people seemed to speak less to him- or at him. He waited for the insults, the sneers, the attacks but they never came. He had his ear permanently to the ground, but the expected Armageddon had thus far not occurred.

He spied John arriving at the rear of the crowd. He was with Sherlock's roommate Ben. Sherlock had nothing to report about the dark-haired and slightly sickly complexioned boy. He was quiet, was rarely in the room unless he was sleeping and hadn't spoken a single word to Sherlock since he'd arrived. It was the next best thing to being alone, and apart from being visited by terrors that one day his nighttime fantasies concerning John might inexplicably return to him, within full earshot and eyeshot of Ben, Sherlock had little to concern himself with him.

John looked like he hadn't slept all night. His skin had an ashy tinge to it and shadows were clinging beneath his eyes. Sherlock had heard about the disastrous game. It was the third on a seemingly unending losing streak. Sherlock tried not to enjoy the indignant humiliation of those who had so long exerted to make his life a misery, but it was remarkable to watch the foundations of the school buckle when their seemingly infallible idols were proven to be, in actuality, human and capable of failure.

If anything, Sherlock felt himself increasingly isolated from his peers. They seemed to shrink away from him. Not obviously, but out of the corner of his eye he saw it: their increasing wariness of him. He saw it with unease. It was not comforting to him that this change had come on so suddenly.

He spied Jim near the rear. Close to where John was standing. He was next to Marty. As usual. They never strayed far from each other. Or, rather, Marty never strayed far from him. Sherlock could see his dedication as clear as day. Whatever their relationship entailed, it was clear that Marty's attraction to Jim ran deep. Jim treated Marty with indifference. He rebuffed him with cold, unfeeling gestures and jerks of his head. And yet Marty crawled evermore to him. Sherlock didn't wonder what power Jim had over him. He had had too much experience with Jim in past weeks to see just what he wielded over those who came into contact with him.

The home classroom door opened at almost precisely 8:30. But it wasn't Hurst's lanky figure that greeted them, but a brisk and rather square-shouldered woman with grey hair and a long brown skirt under a plaid jacket. She stepped back from the door, looking at them with her head slightly raised, almost with a vague distaste. There was a shock of vibrant red lipstick across her lips, contrasting with an otherwise colourless, washed-out face.

Sherlock watched her as he took his seat in the front row. There were already murmurs from around him. Hurst had never missed a class in all of their time at Redverse. This was not just out of character, it was freakish. Unless Hurst was dying of typhoid he was not averse to coming to class sick and unless his entire family had been wiped out in a house fire it took a lot to keep him away.

"Good morning, boys," the woman said briskly, standing in front of the desk with Hurst's roll folder clasped in wrinkled hands. "I trust you have realised that I am not your usual teacher Mr. Hurst. I am Ms. Stone and I will be taking his classes from now on. Any concerns about your assignments or work you intended to clear up with him can now be directed towards me. Any questions?"

Her sharp eyes scanned the room like a laser, absorbing them all in one swift movement. Sherlock raised his hand. Her eyes settled on him.

"Yes... Mr...?" she said slowly, as though she hadn't expected anyone to actually speak.

"Holmes," Sherlock replied. "Why precisely will you be taking his classes? Is he indisposed?"

Ms. Stone made a face like she was sucking hard on a lemon. "I'm not sure that is any of your business, Mr. Hose-"

" _Holmes_."

Ms. Stone blinked. "Sorry, dear?"

"Forget it," Holmes snapped.

When they were dismissed, Sherlock waited by the bag racks, watching for John. He came out at the rear as always, and Sherlock caught his eye. He didn't dare to for more than the briefest moment, but it was enough to let John know he needed to talk to him.

He turned on his heel and walked away from the home room, knowing that John would somehow disentangle himself from his friends and come after him. Though these days John seemed to have little trouble finding time away from his friends. They no longer seemed to swathe him like an ever-present swarm. Again, Sherlock did not find this sudden peace comforting.

"What is it?" John appeared beside him as he turned into an empty corridor around the corner.

Sherlock didn't turn to him. It was difficult being close to John when he as so tired and so worried. He didn't trust himself not to engulf him in his arms in some clumsy attempt at comfort.

"There's something strange going on here," he said instead, keeping his eyes forward as they walked down the deserted corridor beside each other. "I think something's happened to Hurst."

"Like what?" John said blankly.

"I... I don't know." Sherlock was wary about divulging what he had overheard between Hurst and Jim, though he was certain it was the biggest clue as to why Hurst's departure may not have been willing. "I just have a feeling. It's just too sudden, too unexplained."

"Well, maybe his mum got cancer or he got offered a job out of town or something," John said with an unconvinced shrug. "It's probably nothing  _sinister._ "

Sherlock nodded and said nothing more on the subject. They had reached the end of the corridor and the frosted glass doors that led on to another. He stopped and turned to John. He looked at the shadows and lines around his eyes, the pallid tinge to his complexion, the hollowness of his cheeks. He looked, in a word, dreadful and Sherlock knew that the anxiety of the past weeks was eating him alive like an intestinal worm.

"How are you anyway?" he said.

John shrugged. "Fine."

Sherlock stared hard at him. "I heard about the game." He hesitated. "And about what happened afterwards."

John, who had been gazing absently at the wall behind him, looked very sharply at him, panic visibly jolting through his eyes. "W-what? How did-"

"People talk," Sherlock said simply. "Do you think they will go through with it?"

John stared at him blankly and it was clear that he had been thinking of something else. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Oh... I... I don't know," John said, colouring. He looked away, his cheeks flushing redder.

"Is there anything else?" Sherlock said wryly. "Anything else you'd like to share?"

John shook his head. "Just tired. Just sick of football and Jim and everyone. Sometimes..." He trailed off with a shrug.

"Just leave Jim to me," Sherlock said. He stared stonily up the corridor behind him. "Stay away from him."

"Trust me, I have no desire to be within ten feet of that creep," John said bitterly.

They walked back towards the home classroom together, and then went their separate ways. Sherlock could afford to do little more than squeeze John's hand in a weak gesture of comfort. John didn't respond, but tried fruitlessly to smile as before he left him.

Sherlock had no desire to spend his free periods in the company of others so he had taken to wandering the school in a desperate bid to have a few moments to think. To think about Hurst, about Jim, about the mess they were in. The mess  _he_ was in.

After all, Jim hadn't wanted John. He had wanted him. Just him.

Sherlock stopped where he was, growling into his hands. Of all the selfish, stupid things he had done, dragging John into his mess had been the worst. Sometimes he thought- He thought...

He couldn't even bring himself to say it. And he felt even the worse for it.

It had been weeks since Jim had discovered them, but he had done nothing. Well, there had been no explosions, no airstrikes, no violent deaths. Or fire ants. But the silence was killing him. Jim's usual game of cornering him and playing with him, teasing and flirting and threatening him had come to an abrupt end. He now barely looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock knew it was all a part of his mindfuckery. He wanted to torment John, infuriate Sherlock and make it quite clear just how much control he had- over himself and the rest of the school.

He checked his phone again. It had become almost a compulsion. He kept expecting to see a message or missed call from Mycroft, but the blank screen stayed blank and the silence continued.

Silence from all sides.

\--

Ben dragged John to the common room that night. John hadn't stepped foot in it for weeks and he knew it couldn't be helping to quell the rumours that his captainship was severely under threat. The last thing John wanted to do was subject himself to the scrutiny of his teammates and peers, but it seemed he had no choice.

There was something withdrawn and too quiet about their behaviour towards him and he didn't like it. Every night expected to be dragged from his bed and beaten. Every day he expected to be exposed for what he really was. He knew that silence would be the last thing he could expect from his team if Jim ever did decide to expose Sherlock and him, but that was far from comforting. No, the silence meant something else. It meant that even without his sexuality being exposed, his team were beginning to drift from him. He was losing his grip on who he thought he was.

"I don't want to do this."

Ben sent him a withering look, one hand already on the common room door. "Look, mate. I don't want to scare you, but you are pretty fucking close to losing it all. If you don't make an effort, the quicker it'll go."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. I'm sure they're all just waiting for the right time to pull the dagger out," he said, trying to shrug off Ben's words when he knew they were only too true.

"Look, just  _try_  and talk them around," Ben said patiently. "It's not too late. Just try."

John sighed heavily. "Fine. If you think it'll help."

Ben pushed open the door and John reluctantly followed him inside. If John had ever wondered what it would be like to walk into a room and be greeted with silence, this would probably be the closest he would ever get.

He watched in growing frustration at the glances that were exchanged, the silent remarks that were made through mere looks in his direction. He felt their dislike, and it hurt.

"How's it going?" Ben said, leading him to a table where Marty, Billy and two others were seated, playing cards.

John was relieved to see that Jim was absent. He didn't know if he could have taken Jim's knowing looks, his teasing remarks. It would have driven him to do something desperate.

Marty and the two others looked up at them wordlessly. Billy greeted them with a grunt. He still bore the marks of his experience with the ants, but seemed to have been forgiven somehow by Marty. Though he was increasingly subjected to biting remarks about his weight and intelligence, and he no longer dared to retort.

Ben sat down and made an unsubtle gesture for John to do the same. The four continued playing Bullshit as though Ben and John hadn't arrived. John narrowed his eyes at Marty across from him.

"Are we going to talk about what happened on the weekend?" he said irritably, before he could stop himself.

Marty didn't look up or reply. "Three fives," he said calmly, placing his cards down.

"Two fours," Billy grunted, flicking down his cards after him.

Ben glanced at John with something akin to despair in his eyes. John sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand. "Look. I think we need to discuss this. You can't just exact a coup on my own team."

Marty released an exaggerated sigh, lowering his cards and finally raising his eyes to fix on John's. "Don't think of it as a coup, golden boy. We live in a democracy after all. It'll be an election. Fair and square."

John stared at him. "You want them to vote you in as captain?"

"I don't  _want_  it, the team  _needs_  it," Marty replied curtly. "You've clearly lost your touch, John and I think the sooner the team is in capable hands, the better. The team agrees with me."

John glared around the rest of the table. "Do you? You think I'm an incompetent captain? Why don't you speak up and say it to my fucking face instead of carrying on like a group of bitching old women?"

No one spoke and John realised the whole room had gone quiet. Marty watched him with cool, hard derision, so unruffled that he could have rivalled even Sherlock Holmes.

"This is business, John," he said shortly. "Don't take it so personally." He tilted his cards back up towards his chest. "But you always were so sensitive. It's not a good trait in a captain."

John could almost see Marty's limbs jerking at the leverage of the strings Jim had attached to him. He was nothing but Jim's pawn. His fucktoy, his puppet, his representative. John didn't know when it had ever been clearer just how powerless Marty was without Jim above him, pulling his strings.

John was brought back to earth by a vibratory buzz in his pocket. His mobile. He stood up from the table, without looking at any of them and walked towards the door.

Outside in the corridor, Ben caught up with him. "Just ignore that git!" he said. "He's an idiot."

"No, he's not," John said, not looking back at him. "He's right. I'm over. Everyone agrees with him. Or are they all idiots too?"

Ben made a frustrated sound. "You can't let that prick be captain. Him...and Jim. They're not good news."

John turned to him. "Then why don't you do something about it?" he said sharply. "It's much safer to send me into the fray to do the dirty work and get my arse kicked, isn't it? Safer and easier."

Ben shook his head wordlessly. He seemed to have no words to reply to what John knew was the absolute truth.

"I've had enough," John said in a low voice. "I give up."

He turned his back on him and escaped into his dorm room alone. He sunk down onto his bed, wiping away the dampness from his eyes. The pain he felt at his friends' predictable betrayal was greater than he had expected or knew was sensible. He had always known them capable of it; he didn't know why he hadn't realised sooner just how right Sherlock had always been. John had allowed himself to think it was part of their nature, uncontrollable and irresistible. But it wasn't. They were just weak. Weak and frightened. And they had no loyalty to anyone but themselves.

And what was worse was that he didn't know if someone else, some other boy was in the situation he was in that he would react differently. Perhaps all human beings were, at their core, bad. Sherlock had always seemed to think so.

John pulled his mobile out of his pocket, but didn't open the new message there. It was from Sherlock. Of course. But suddenly John felt very tired, too tired to deal with Sherlock. He tossed his phone onto his desk and collapsed onto his side, curling into his covers like a child and letting the tears tremble down his cheeks.

\--

Sherlock was woken by the sound of voices in the corridor and someone walking around his dorm room. He lifted his head up with difficulty, staring across to where Ben was buttoning his school shirt. He stared past him to the window; sunlight was only just starting to creep through the crack in the curtains.

Ben glanced at him; his tie was hanging untied around his neck. "You better get up. Harvey's called an assembly."

Sherlock watched him groggily. It was the first time Ben had spoken to him. It was difficult to comprehend it while half asleep. He hadn't gotten more than four hours sleep the night before.

He watched from beneath the covers as his roommate tied his tie loosely around his neck and preened his short, dark hair in the mirror nailed to the door. He glanced at Sherlock as he leant down to pick up his school bag, but didn't speak.

Sherlock waited until he was gone before slipping out from under the covers. He leant across to his desk and picked up his mobile from the place he had tossed it the night before, after waiting three fruitless hours for John to respond to his text message. He refused to follow it up with a secondary text. He was not in the habit of harassing people to talk to him. If John had something better to do than fornicate with him, then so be it.

He stared at the blank screen. No messages. No calls. It had been-

He checked his watch with furrowed eyebrows.

"Twelve hours," he muttered, dropping it back onto the desk.

It was the longest period of time John had taken to reply to a text of his. He stared blankly at the door of his room. Without meaning to, his mind was conjuring up excuses for why John hadn't replied. He must have been working on the play; it was due in a few days. He must have been held up with homework or with his friends. He wouldn't knowingly ignore Sherlock's text. Surely not.

Sherlock gave himself an irritated shake. He was only too aware of just how pathetic it was to stand around in his pyjamas, wondering why his boyfriend handed texted him back.

He arrived at the assembly hall just as the rest of the grade were being ushered in through the doors. Ms. Stone was standing by the door, waving boys in like a short, plaid clad policewoman. He searched the crowd for John, but despite spotting his usual crowd near the doors he didn't see head or tail of John. Or Jim.

He didn't know whether to peg this as a coincidence or a bad sign.

He waited at a safe distance from the crowd, watching John's friends talk in low voices amongst themselves. He wasn't oblivious to the changes within the ranks of the football team. He tried to ignore them for John's sake, but it was obvious to him that John's power was waning. And rapidly. And he had no doubt it was due to Jim Moriarty and his puppet.

He watched Marty standing unsmilingly among his increasingly sycophantic teammates. What a difference a powerful ally made. How interesting it was to watch Marty morph from an idiotic fop to something sleeker, smarter and more dangerous. Or at least create the illusion of being so.

"You must stop making eyes at my confidante, Sherlock. You'll make me jealous."

Sherlock didn't turn. The heated breath against his ear made goosebumps trickle down his neck. The sensation was so rapid that he didn't have time to prevent a throb of heat shooting straight to his groin.

Jim appeared, a derisive smile playing on his mouth. "All hot and bothered, Sherlock? Isn't your blonde boytoy taking care of you?"

"No need to fear, Jim. I wouldn't touch your  _confidante_ with a ten-foot pole," Sherlock said coldly.

Jim's smile widened. "Oh, I know you wouldn't, Sherlock. Because then I'd have to destroy that pretty face of his. And I do so hate destroying pretty things."

Sherlock sniffed and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Marty watching them. Despite his hatred for Jim, he took a childish and spiteful relish in making the brute jealous. He knew that every trifling encounter between Jim and Sherlock would be agony to Marty.

"Look at him," Jim simpered, his eyes also fixed on Marty. "He is  _so_  loyal. Better than a dog. Better than anything in fact. What every person needs is someone they can  _exploit_. Suck of every drop of their independent spirit until they're little more than a withering parasite feeding off every trifling scrap you choose to toss their way."

Sherlock jerked his head towards him with a snarl. "You don't know what you're talking about. John is _nothing_  like Marty. He is ten times the person that slimy cretin will ever be."

Jim's eyes fixed on his. He seemed to draw everything he could from Sherlock just by looking at him; he extracted everything from Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock couldn't stop him. He leant forward and Sherlock didn't expect the hands on his collar and didn't have time to step back. He felt like every eye was on them.

"Get your hands off of me," he snarled, shoving Jim's hand away.

His touch felt like it had left a burn on his skin. He could have traced the place where Jim's fingers had touched. They should have been icy cold, but they were warm. Warm and soft.

Jim's mouth quirked into a half-formed smirk. His dark eyes glittered. "Catch you later, Sherlock."

Sherlock watched him join Marty and the rest of the football team. They were darting glances towards Sherlock, wide-eyed and confused. Sherlock knew what protection Jim had bestowed on him against his own wishes. Nobody would dare victimize someone Jim Moriarty appeared to have an explainable tolerance for. Sherlock was safe, he was under Jim's protection. And he loathed it.

"Boys," Ms. Stone's cut-ice tone sounded loudly from the door. "Get inside this instance. You'll be late for Mr. Harvey."

Sherlock slowly moved to follow the others. He was the last inside. He looked over his shoulder before reluctantly letting the doors swing shut behind him. John still hadn't arrived. His stomach gave an uneasy swirl.

Principal Harvey looked grim. Perhaps it was just the combination of his grey suit and grey tie, but there was something uncharacteristically ashen about him. Sherlock could see the teachers sitting along the front row. Ms Stone was in Hurst's empty place.

"Boys! Silence!" His voice rumbled through the assembly hall, his usual reluctance to raise his voice over them seemingly forgotten in his agitation. "Hurry up, boy! Find a seat. And you there, quieten down this instant."

Total silence almost immediately fell, except for the occasional cough or shrill squeak of a chair. Harvey held the front of the stand on the pulpit, his hammy knuckles flushing white the tighter he clasped it.

Harvey swept a slow eye over them and then opened his mouth. "Now, I-"

There was a low growl, as the doors of the assembly hall opened. Almost every head turned in the direction of the noise. Sherlock didn't, but he could tell from the derisive snickers and expressions who it was. His skin burned with resentment.

"Watson," Harvey snarled, his moustache bristling. "You're late! This meeting was called for 7:30 sharp! Or do you think you are somehow exempt from school procedure?"

There was a low rumble of laughs. Sherlock gripped the edge of his seat hard, willing himself not to snap and retort. John wouldn't want that. It would just make the situation worse.

"I'm sorry, sir," John said. He sounded calm, but Sherlock detected the humiliation in his voice.

He shuffled down a few steps, clearly searching for an empty seat. Harvey's eyes were fixed on him, narrowed and pig-like. Sherlock felt a rush of hatred for the man. "Take the seat next to Holmes," he said through gritted teeth, still with a perfect clarity that rang around the hall like a bell.

Sherlock didn't dare turn his head as John lowered himself into the seat next to him. He was warm from running. He was breathing a little hard; Sherlock could see his chest rising and falling out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock had a remarkably vivid image in his head of fucking John in his seat while their classmates watched on in stunned silence. He could almost hear John as he moaned, his body rolling off of him and down again in desperate waves.

His mouth was dry.

"Now," Harvey said at length, his piggish little eyes passing over them all again. "I'm sure you would have realised by now that Mr. Hurst, your English teacher and one of our home class teachers is no longer in either position."

There were a few nods and quiet murmurs, but no one seemed overwhelmingly concerned by this occurrence. Sherlock sat up a little straighter in his seat.

"And I am also sure you have become acquainted with his replacement, Ms. Jessica Stone." He gestured to Stone's boxy figure in the front row. "Now, no doubt rumours will take flight following this... unexpected occurrence." Harvey paused, stroking his moustache with a finger and thumb.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. Nerves. Curious.

"I wish to address these promptly and directly. Mr. Hurst will be leaving us for personal reasons relating to his health. These reasons are not necessary to go into, but suffice to say that  _lies_  and  _gossip-mongering_  will be met with severe consequences." He lapsed into silence, his nostrils flaring in a challenging manner.

There was total silence. Sherlock could almost feel everyone digesting this information and wondering just how diabolical the circumstances of Hurst's departure must be to warrant such damage control.

"Now," Harvey released a long breath. "That being said, I am sure Ms. Stone will be a more than adequate replacement and I'm sure you will all farewell Mr. Hurst very amiably before he leaves tomorrow."

Sherlock almost laughed aloud. He could just imagine what  _farewell_  Jim and his loyal followers would give Hurst. Whatever it was Jim had had over Hurst, he had clearly used it. In the end, Jim had discovered the information for himself. He had no use for Hurst now.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on the boy eight rows down. His head was tilted to one side. He could almost picture the bored expression on his face. How trifling another's person misery was to him. Not even worth the energy to gloat over.

They were dismissed and Sherlock waited a safe amount of time before following John, pretending to tie his shoelace for at least one good, long minute. John rose and left him without a word or glance. Sherlock almost yearned for a look. Just a look. But John was just doing what he had taught him to do: look on him with total indifference.

The courtyard outside was empty. He took his time walking back to class, walking around the stairs outside the assembly hall three times and letting Harvey's words bubble over him like water.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he almost jumped out of his skin. Touching his heart with a hand, he pulled it out and felt it leap foolishly at the sight of "John" on the screen.

_Meet me in the dark room? John x_

Sherlock stared at the 'x' after John's name. He couldn't remember John ever using that little 'x' before.

_"Now?"_  he replied.

Three seconds later his phone buzzed in his hand.

_Unless you have something better to do._

Sherlock slid his phone into his pocket. He wondered if John had had the same thoughts he had had while he had been sitting there in the assembly hall. He could almost feel his cock hardening as he walked in the direction of the dark room.

He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He slowly opened it, frowning down at the doorknob. John didn't have a key. He was the only one with a key. He wracked his brain, trying hard to remember whether he had stupidly left the door unlocked the last time they had been there. It had been over a week ago, but he was almost certain that he had locked it fast.

He tentatively opened the door and let the light fall into the gloom. Almost simultaneously pain blurred his vision.

He was yanked roughly inside and he heard the door slam shut behind him with a deafening smash. The light was turned on and he was almost disorientated by the sudden, sickly light.

Marty pushed him roughly into the bench behind him. It slammed painfully into his hips. "What the fuck are you doing?" he spat, gripping at the hand on his neck.

There was such an expression of loathing and resentment on Marty's face. Sherlock knew that there was pain in that anger, and jealousy. He could taste it.

"Let go of me, Hester," Sherlock growled, watching him carefully. "This won't help."

"Just shut the fuck up, Holmes," Marty spat. He let go of him and stepped back, breathing roughly. He ran a hand through his hair. "You fucking touch him and I'll kill you, you hear me?"

"You think I want anything to do with that psychopathic bastard?" Sherlock said coldly.

Marty's jaw set rapidly and Sherlock knew he had crossed the line. Agony erupted in his jaw and he stumbled to his knees, gripping his face. He felt something damp and thick hit the back of his neck and realised in disgust what it was as it trickled down his back.

He watched hunched over as Marty's feet retreated towards the door. It opened and closed with a curt snap. He was left in the yellowy gloom. His face was throbbing and he could feel his nose and bottom lip was bleeding. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed it away.

He got to his feet and walked to the door. He stuck the key in and turned the knob but it didn't budge. He shoved it hard and it gave a bare inch but he could see the legs of a chair Marty had shoved against the door to trap him inside. He stepped back with a frustrated huff.

He retreated back to the bench, pushing the tissue back to his jaw. He felt utterly stupid. It should have been the little 'x' that gave it away. Of course it hadn't been John. Of  _course_  it hadn't. He should have realised that from the moment he set eyes on it. He had never felt so duped in his life. But he didn't think Marty had accomplished such a plot by himself. In fact he knew it. This bore the brand of someone who relished in trickery.

This suspicion was soon proved correct by the sound of the chair being pulled back from the door. The clean light from the hallway drifted into the darkness and a silhouette stood in the doorway, completely obscured in the gloom.

"You can never face me yourself, can you?" he said, as the door was shut again and the hallway light was swallowed.

Jim walked over to him, his face finally visible in the yellow light. His eyes took in Sherlock's appearance, settling on his hair, his lips, his nose, his neck, his chest, his stomach, his-

"What the hell do you want?" Sherlock said brusquely, straightening up with difficulty and trying to ignore the pain in his face.

Jim cocked his head at him and then his eyes settled on his busted bottom lip. Before Sherlock could pull away, he had leant out a pale, cold hand and pressed his thumb against it. Sherlock heard a gasp leave his lips.

Jim pulled his hand away. There was blood smeared across his thumb. "He hurt you?"

"What do you care?" Sherlock said thickly. The darkroom was far too stuffy, the air was far too close.

"I told him not to touch you," Jim said quietly, his eyes fixed on his thumb. "The little rat. He disobeyed me."

"Yes, I think your little minion lost control of himself," Sherlock said spitefully. "I think he got a little jealous. Too bad. I thought you had him better trained."

Jim's eyes snapped to his. He smirked widely. "No matter. Minions are always dispensable. And who knows..." He lifted the thumb to his mouth and Sherlock watched in numb horror as he lapped the blood away with a smooth motion of his tongue. He dropped his hand, licking his lips slowly over. "I may train him yet."

The motion of Jim's thumb, his skin against his tongue had elicited a violent shiver from Sherlock and he couldn't stop it erupting through his body. Jim's eyes seemed to burn as he took a step towards him. "Don't you get tired of playing this game?"

"Yes, I'm very tired of playing this game," Sherlock mumbled, pushing back fruitlessly against the bench.

"Then admit it," Jim said. His lips were open and Sherlock could smell the spicy cologne on him, the expensive scent. "You want to kiss me."

"No," Sherlock said, his mouth so dry he could barely form words. "You've cooked up a sick fantasy in your own warped mind. I want nothing to do with you."

Jim tittered, and rolled up onto his toes to close to space between them. He was so close. Sherlock could see every inch of his face like it was etched out of marble. In a confused, aroused jolt he realised how perfectly pale and gentle it was, how delicious the psychopath was and how hard he was pressed against his thigh.

Jim's lips grazed against his. It was like lightning had hit him and shot down through his body in one sickening jolt. He put his hands to Jim's chest and shoved him away with all his might. Jim staggered back, almost losing his balance completely. For the first time since meeting him Sherlock saw surprise flicker through Jim's eyes.

"So  _aggressive_ ," Jim said, his voice slightly shrill.

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked towards the door without a word.

"You know you can't escape me that easily, Sherlock!" Jim sang loudly after him.

Sherlock slammed the door open, blinking the harsh natural light out of his eyes. He started walking, though he didn't know where he was going and didn't think any measure of exertion could erase what he had just allowed to happen.

_End of Chapter Twenty-Four_


	25. Chapter 25

The parcel had arrived at Redverse a few days after John. It was flat and not very large. Probably only seven or eight inches long. On one side was an untidy scrawl indicating the school's address and on the other he could vaguely decipher his home address.

He turned it slowly over, as though the blank brown paper might give him some clue as to what was inside. It was very light, very oddly shaped. He had no idea what his mother could be possessed to send him. Late Christmas present? Something he had forgotten? He couldn't put his finger on it.

He heard the door open behind him and quickly shoved it into the open drawer. Below it in a pile was the medical school application form Sherlock had pilfered from his bedroom. He gave it a fleeting look before slamming the drawer closed.

"Hi, Billy," he said hastily, spinning around to face his roommate.

Billy looked at him very briefly, with the barest of grunts in greeting before lumbering over to his side of the room, dropping his school bag with a heavy thump onto the carpet.

John tried not to notice how cold Billy's behaviour towards him had become in recent days. He tried not to notice how he barely spoke to him, how his eyes darted away every time John looked at him, how he seemed to find every excuse possible to not acknowledge John's existence. John tried not to care, but it hurt.

He watched Billy shift through the confused pile of clothes and schoolbooks on his bed, his back turned almost pointedly to his roommate. John slowly turned back around, staring across his very clean desk. He'd cleaned it the evening before. It had been partly out of frustration at no longer being able to fit his laptop on his desk the clutter was such, and partly out of pure restlessness.

He seemed to be slowly becoming overwhelmed with schoolwork. As due dates crept closer for Maths, Science, History and, most worryingly of all, the play he found himself spending longer and longer nights crouched over his desk, working by the light of his phone sometimes when Billy complained about the glare of his lamp.

Billy obviously found what he was looking for amongst the confusion of his belongings, John heard him beginning to toss everything back to its usual resting place on his unmade bed. John kept almost saying something to him, kept almost asking him where the rest of the team was. Probably in the common room. And he didn't like to go in there if he could help it these days.

"What time is practice again?" he finally managed to choke out.

There was silence. John's arms tensed on the desk. "Five," Billy said at length, the word barely more than one indistinct syllable.

He left, leaving the room faintly shaking from the slammed door. John exhaled slowly and stood. His heart was throbbing agitatedly in his chest.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on steadying his breathing and not the overwhelming sensation of panic that seemed to come on without warning these days. He needed to get out of the dorm room. Those four walls were becoming unbearable. Sometimes he couldn't take being trapped there. The feeling came increasingly frequently in recent times.

He left the incarceration of his solitary room and headed blindly for the school grounds, walking as quickly as possible. He didn't like to walk around by himself. He wasn't used to it. He wasn't like Sherlock who seemed to thrive on his own company. He didn't like to be looked at while he was alone, he didn't like to be seen as a loner. But he was increasingly having no choice.

It wasn't safe for him and Sherlock to hang around each other. That was that. It had been decided. It wasn't safe.

So for a week he hadn't touched Sherlock, he hadn't kissed him, he hadn't felt his arms around him, he hadn't been within three feet of him for longer than the briefest of moments.

Sherlock thought it was best. And, reluctantly, John agreed. Things weren't the same now. They weren't too clever to be caught. They weren't infallible.

And Jim Moriarty knew.

It made John sick to even think about it. Made him sick with embarrassment and regret. Embarrassment that Moriarty knew what he was hiding, knew that he was not even one cell the person he endeavoured to project to the world and regretful that he had been so smug and short-sighted as to not think that they would eventually be caught.

He reached the sunlit courtyard and stopped to catch his breath by the stone steps. It was a rare day. Very temperate and sunny. The remainder of the hardest, deepest strains of winter seemed to be loosening and melting away. Maybe not physically, but there was something in the air that suggested that winter was waning.

The end of winter was always a source of relief to John. May. May was the most perfect month. It was the last month of football. And then he was free. He could pretend for two months that he wasn't captain of the team, that he was just an anonymous nobody. Not a footballer. Just a teenage nobody.

He lifted the sleeve of his school jumper to his face, burying his nose and face in it. Somewhere in the scratchy acrylic fibres was the long-lost scent of a long burnt-out cigarette. It was gone. As gone as a smell could be. He'd washed his jumper at least twice since it had settled there, but he'd developed a vaguely concerning habit of sniffing the same fibres as though it were still there. Sometimes he could still decipher it amongst the sterile stench of the school's washing powder.

He dropped his arm to his side, glancing over his shoulder to the stern stretch of brick and unwashed windows. There were only some moments that he truly relished by himself, and indulging in his tendency to act like a lovesick puppy was one of them. He would never, e _ver_  admit to Sherlock just how much he missed him. It would be too humbling.

Though he had a hunch that Sherlock already knew. Very much so.

\--

And just like that they had decided that things had to stop. Sherlock had decided things had to stop. He didn't know when everything had become clear, but as he had been walking away from the darkroom, suddenly what he knew was necessary came sharply into focus.

He wrapped his swarf once more around his neck, covering every slither of white flesh in the deep blue folds. John had bought it for him for Christmas, a very late Christmas present from the local  _Marks and Spencer_ , and more in jest than earnest but Sherlock liked it. It was longer and thicker than his own two scarves. And the thought that he had something John had touched coiled around his neck was becoming very comforting to him.

The floodlight above him was attracting a multitude of insects and every so often one of the little buggers would meet its demise, flying stupidly into the electrical light and rain down onto Sherlock like little, living snowflakes.

He tiredly raised a hand to flick a dead moth off his shoulder. It wasn't ideal. But- he glanced down towards the ever shrinking mob of Redverse parents huddling further up the sideline- it was better than the alternative.

He was too far from the pitch to know what was happening, even if he had understood the first thing about football. The haze of the floodlight above him made it almost impossible to make out John from Billy Pip. The oversized oaf had reappeared that evening, covered on his hands and legs from the persistent scars of his misadventure. Sherlock doubted whether some of them would ever fade. He'd forever bear the marks of Jim Moriarty's malice.

Sherlock shivered, and pulled his scarf tighter against him. It was a reassuring, soft weight against his throat. He screwed his eyes up, grimacing at his own blunder. Now it was there. The poisonous seed, sprouting roots, penetrating the depths of his mind. Every time he thought he had succeeded in weeding out the traces of Jim Moriarty that still resided in his brain, he foolishly stirred them again, the shards always lurking darkly in the depths of his mind.

He opened his eyes again and the foggy figures on the field swam back into sight. The sounds of their shouts swelling up into the air and the mechanical beat of a plastic shoe coming into contact with the plastic football rushed back into his consciousness. The smell of wet grass and cold air, the frustrated bursts of sound from the mob of parents, the shrill cry of the referee's whistle: it all rushed back. Sherlock drank it in, trying to drown the thoughts in his mind.

The players had stopped short where they were on the pitch. Apparently that particularly loud blast of the referee's whistle had triggered their sudden inaction, when moments ago they had been fiercely flinging themselves against the bitter night air.

They stared around, looking from where Sherlock was standing like blank, gormless sheep the way they were wandering about, some bent over from the effort of running, hands on their knees and backs heaving with the effort of sucking the oxygen they had spent back into their lungs.

Sherlock couldn't distinguish John from the rest of them. Well, that was a lie. He could have. He could have recognised John's walk, his movements, the way he caught his breath after exertion, the way he ran his hands through his hair to cool his scalp, the way he- Sherlock wasn't going to let himself recognise him. If he stared at the whole of them, not focusing in too hard on one person then it wasn't too difficult. His senses didn't seem to function quite so aptly when he focused on groups rather than individuals.

The players were starting to walk off the field, slowly and with the look of a beaten mule that had taken one too many lashes from its master. Sherlock realised with relief that the game was over. He abandoned his lone post and walked back down towards the confusion of people, as the teammates diluted the parental mob.

At the very rear of the team, with muddy knees and his hair limp with sweat was John. His eyes flickered over Sherlock, too quickly and too fearfully to be natural. Sherlock watched him. He could have been caught a dozen times over, the way his eyes had attached themselves to John's flesh, but the others were too shell-shocked to pay attention to anyone outside of their sphere of self-pity.

John's hair was sticking to his forehead. It was damp and starting to dry out in place into crusty shards of blonde. His cheeks were starting to lose their flush of exertion, instead to be replaced by a flush of cold. And, Sherlock suspected, embarrassment under the close scrutiny he knew he was receiving. Sherlock thought there could be a little anger in that flush too. And why not, Sherlock thought. Why the hell shouldn't he be angry?

"John."

John jerked a little where he was standing, and a moment later Sherlock knew why. His father appeared behind him, barely taller than John and wearing his customary grey suit. He laid a hand on John's shoulder, fingers tightening on the ridge of John's collarbone until it must have been uncomfortable. If not downright painful.

John finally gave into his father's unsaid request and allowed himself to be steered away from the crowd. Sherlock watched him go, eyes narrowed.

He tried to keep his eyes on them, but it was difficult with the tangle of parents and sweaty teammates, dousing themselves with water and calmly bearing the grumbled lectures of their disappointed parents. Sherlock could make out words like "embarrassment", "disgrace", "pathetic".

He eyed Marty a few metres to his left. He was aware of Sherlock's presence. He had looked at him, seen him. His cold blue eyes had settled directly onto him, drinking him in like he was calculating the threat he posed.

Because he knew very well that Sherlock posed a threat. He may have been ignorant, but he wasn't stupid. Perhaps he knew he was a pawn, or perhaps he merely thought he had a rival for Jim's attention. Sherlock wasn't certain, but he was certain that Marty's leash was tight in the hand of someone else now; he was no more than a puppet, a plaything. His alpha dog status had, whether anyone truly knew it or not, disappeared the day he had become obsessed with Jim Moriarty.

But Marty's humiliation was no comfort to Sherlock. He was now in the sights of a far more dangerous enemy.

Marty turned his back to him. Sherlock suddenly realised that, unlike his teammates, his frame was almost bone dry. It wasn't stained with sweat and mud and water. It didn't look to Sherlock like he had exerted himself particularly hard on the pitch. He glanced at Marty's father to see how he was taking this new apathy in his son. Mr. Hester's bloated face was calm. He looked almost indifferent to the commotion around him. He and his son were side by side and neither was talking. It didn't seem at all right to Sherlock.

His examination of Marty was suddenly interrupted by John's reappearance. He forced his way between his teammates, his eyes fixed on Marty. The expression on his face was such that Sherlock's stomach gave an uneasy lurch at what he was certain was about to happen.

In front of him, he watched as John reached Marty and his hands raised to come roughly into contact with his taller teammate's shoulders. One sharp shove backwards and Marty was coming back at him with a shove of his own, strong enough to send John reeling back into one of the mothers behind him. She gave a squawk and all eyes were suddenly on the two boys facing each other and wearing twin expressions of pure antipathy.

Sherlock took a step forward, almost unconsciously. Marty looked sharply at him and then back to John. Sherlock saw the accusation on his lips. He saw it in Marty's eyes: the question he already knew the answer to. He could have destroyed John with that question; he wanted to. He wanted to humiliate John in front of his team more desperately than anything, but he wouldn't. Not without permission.

Speaking of which. Sherlock cast an eye over the gaggle of onlookers. The remaining parents were gathered like a ring around the outside of the group, watching in like Colosseum spectators; the players were in an untidy bunch in the middle, watching in evident fascination this display of team politics. Sherlock scanned them face to face, but he could tell from his brief sweep that he wasn't there. It was unusual for him. Sherlock knew how he loved to watch chaos and conflict ensue.

Sherlock felt like a spectator himself. Like someone on the other side of the glass. No one was paying the least bit of attention to him. A few cautionary glances were thrown in his direction but he could have been disguised as a bush for all the effect he was having on the tense partakers.

"You bastard," John hissed, his knuckles curling into fists either side of him. "You gutless bastard! You couldn't even tell me yourself? You had to get my-my  _father_ \- he spat the word like it left a poisonous taste in his mouth – to do it for you?"

"Now, now!" Marty's father boomed, his oversized stomach preceding him as he took a few steps towards the two boys. "Let's not deteriorate into all this stupid arguing! We have to make a few tough decisions here. I know it ain't easy, but it's got to be done."

John's lip curled, but he said nothing. Beside him his father's face was slowly becoming overrun by a splotchy red hue; his eyes were fixed fiercely and narrowly on Bruce Hester, as though he'd like nothing more than to run at him himself.

There were perturbed murmurs from amongst the parents. It was clear that the team's turmoil had been far from a small concern in their minds. The players themselves seemed almost too tired and demoralized to much care what was going on about them. Sherlock thought that only two seemed to be watching the events unfolding between the two fathers and sons with any real interest. Billy Pip's piggish eyes were darting between the four of them, his thick brows deeply furrowed. And a foot or so away from Billy was Sherlock's roommate Ben, staring blankly at Marty, as though he couldn't quite believe what was about to play out in front of him.

Sherlock realised then that this was not a sporadic occurrence to all involved. It may have been a nasty shock to John, but some, maybe not all, but some of his friends knew very well this had been in store.

"Let's talk about this sensibly now," Bruce said in what he evidently thought to be a reasonable tone, resting a pudgy hand on his son's shoulder. He was wearing a loose blue button-up shirt that ballooned over his oversized stomach. "The team has been underperforming for weeks now. It's not what we're used to. It's not what  _anyone_  involved is used to! Teachers, parents and players alike. We put a hell of a lot of effort into this team, it's a damned shame to see it floundering."

There were murmurs and nods of agreement from the surrounding parents. It was obvious that most of them were ready to blindly follow whatever Bruce Hester had to say. He was loud and obnoxious, just like his son and he was a leader. When he spoke, people listened. Whether it was through bullying, manipulation or rhetoric, he would recruit people to his cause.

"We owe it to this team to make the necessary changes, as hard as they may be." He shook his head with a regretful sigh. "Marty," his hand tightened on his son's shoulder. "Maybe you should take it from here."

John's eyes, which had been boring resentfully into Bruce, snapped onto Marty. As did those of everyone else around him. Sherlock glanced at Marty's face. If he was intimidated by the attention, it didn't show. He seemed to have been steeling himself for this moment for a long time.

"I'm offering myself up as captain," he said, after a brief pause.

Behind him his father gave a loud cough, patting his son's shoulder hastily with one hand and flattening his shirt in a blustery way with the other. "What my son means to say is," he said loudly, over the voices that erupted at his son's words. "He wants to help mend the troubles the team has been having."

The parents were chattering fervently amongst themselves, it was difficult to tell whether Marty's announcement had taken them by surprise. The team seemed less affected: some were eyeing each other in a wary fashion, but otherwise there was barely any reaction at all from them. Sherlock's belief that they had known ahead of time strengthened.

"I can't believe this," John said lividly, barely audible over the noise from the parents.

"It's nothing against you, John!" Bruce said hastily, as his son yanked himself out of his grip. He walked across to the edge of the field, turning his back on the mob.

"It has everything to do with me!" John spat at him. Sherlock was taken aback by the bile in John's voice. He had never seen him speak that way to anyone, let alone an adult. "I'm the captain of this team! We've won over fifty games, you know that? Over fifty. And a couple of bad days and you're done with me?"

"John, John, John! Don't be so dramatic," Bruce said, tearing his eyes off his son.

Near him Mr. Watson was staring stonily ahead. He hadn't taken his son's shoulders like Mr. Hester had. His hands were buried stiffly in his pockets; his mouth was thinned into a pencil thin line.

"You're a fucking coward," John said, eyes narrowed at Marty's turned back.

Marty whirled around and threw himself in John's direction. The two boys collided into a furious scuffle. The boys around them roused almost immediately into action, trying to tear Marty off and shouting for them to stop.

"Marty! Marty!" Bruce was bellowing, trying to fight his way through the bodies towards his son, now dragging John to his feet by the collar of his shirt. "Leave off! Leave off, for God's sake!"

Sherlock found himself bodily trying to force his own way through the chaos. No one seemed to notice him, they were too busy trying to tear the fighting boys apart.

Finally, Marty was yanked forcibly backwards by three others. He had a blood nose and a busted lip, but John was sporting some angry marks on his cheeks and forehead that Sherlock had no doubt had come from Marty's fists.

He stopped short where he was, giving up on getting past the wall of bodies. He stared at Marty's dishevelled form, suddenly gripped by the decision that if he ever got the chance he would kill Marty in as painful and humiliating a fashion as he could design.

"That's enough, John," Mr. Watson suddenly snarled, roused like a creature made of stone. He placed both hands on John's shoulders, steering him forcefully out of the stew of his teammates and the parents who had waded in to extract their sons from the confusion.

"This is ridiculous!" one of them snapped, a balding man wearing thick black glasses. He was holding Ben tightly by one arm. "We can't carry on team matters like this."

"I'm sure we can settle this in a sensible manner," Bruce said in a strangled voice, clearly fearing he was losing control of his followers. "John... Marty... why don't we talk alone?"

"There's no need," Mr. Watson said sharply, his hand tight on John's shoulders. His knuckles were papery white. A trickle of blood was dribbling down from John's left nostril. "We understand the need for this perfectly, Bruce. There's no need to drag it out."

John jerked his shoulders out of his father's grip and stalked through the crowd and back towards the school, without a glance at anyone around him. There were uneasy mutters from his teammates.

"Fucking wanker," Marty said in a low voice, wiping the blood away from his mouth.

"Marty," Bruce hissed with a sharp tut.

Mr. Watson walked past the father and son, seeming not to hear Marty's insult. He walked after John, leaving the mob to Mr. Hester's expertise.

Sherlock walked numbly after him, his heart beating uncomfortably in his chest. Behind him he could hear the remainder of the rabble beginning to break out into chaos again, at the departure of John and his father.

Sherlock followed them up towards the steps, the grass was soaked and in the dark he couldn't avoid the muddy puddles and kept sinking up to his ankles in cold, filthy water. In the light of the lamp at the top of the playing field steps he could see John waiting for his father. He looked very small and very defeated standing there alone in the dirty light of the lamp.

Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs just as John's father was reaching his son. "What the hell do you think you were doing?" he said, the fury so evident in his demeanour on the pitch finally bursting through.

"He came at me," John spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"But you didn't have to start carrying on like some brainless hooligan!" his father spat back at him. "You think it makes you look like a man carrying on like this? You think it makes them respect you when you carry on like a sore loser?"

"I should have known that the only time you'd start giving a shit about me is when you sense I might start screwing up your image," John snarled.

"How dare you speak to me like that," Mr. Watson breathed. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Sherlock walked up another step; his hands were trembling beside him in the darkness. John's face came into view at the top of the stairs. The expression on his face was one of mingled anger and hurt, both seemed to be fighting for dominance in his eyes.

"Maybe you can face it now, dad," John went on in a furious burst, "I'll never be a football star. I'll never play for England. I don't even want to play for Redverse. Did you know that? I don't even give a shit about it. I never have."

"You ungrateful little bastard." Mr Watson balled John's shirt up in his fist, yanking his face up towards him. "Do you know everything I've done for you? Do you even comprehend how much you have to lose?"

"You mean, I might screw up your dream. I might not achieve your dream for you," John said softly, a spiteful tinge coming into his voice. "The dream you could never get because you just weren't good enough-"

Mr. Watson moved so quickly that Sherlock didn't realise what he was about to do. Then he heard a loud slap, like something hitting water at high speed. John reeled back, almost losing his balance where he was.

Sherlock took the remainder of the stairs two at a time, his eyes fixed on where John was clutching his face and staring at his father in blank disbelief. He stepped in between them, eyes fixed on John's father. "That's enough," he told Mr. Watson, staring at the man's lined face, the dark circles under his eyes and his wiry yellow hair that seemed to add a sallow tinge to his tired complexion.

"Sherlock," Mr. Watson said, seeming out of breath. His eyes flickered from Sherlock's face to where John was behind him. His knuckles were shaking. "This is none of your concern."

"It is my concern," Sherlock said, struggling furiously to keep the fury from his voice as he stared at him. "If you lay another hand on him I'll call the authorities and I'll make sure they arrest you for assault. I'll then contact my parents. My parents are very rich, very well-connected; they could make life difficult for you. I'll make sure of it."

Mr. Watson's eyes snapped onto him. Sherlock thought for a moment he might hit him too. Then he gave a humourless bark of laughter. "How dare you threaten me."

"Leave, Mr. Watson," Sherlock said quietly.

Mr. Watson didn't reply and didn't speak. He stared over Sherlock's shoulder towards his son. Sherlock could hear John breathing unsteadily behind him, but he stayed silent.

"Alright," Mr. Watson said, swallowing. "Alright. I'll leave."

He took two steps forward and then stopped. Sherlock turned, watching him closely. He tried to lay a hand on John's arm, but John took a sharp step back. His features were gently contorting themselves, his mouth was trembling violently.

Silently, Mr. Watson walked past him and then down the steps, without a look back at either of them. Sherlock listened to his footsteps disappear onto the soft, wet grass. He could still hear the distant voices from the pitch.

John wasn't looking at him; he was staring away at the stairs, blinking furiously to get rid of the tears that had settled in his eyes.

"We better get back to the dorms," Sherlock said at length, distractedly fingering the end of the scarf.

John looked at him, all traces of impending emotion successfully quenched. "Is that it?"

"Is what it?" Sherlock replied, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs.

"I hate this," John said bitterly. "Why do we have to do this?"

"You know why," Sherlock said. "Come on, we need to go inside."

"You talk like... like it's not safe for us to be together," John said, grudgingly letting Sherlock steer him towards the school doors.

"It's not, John," Sherlock said. The sensation of John's warm back under his hand was sending ridiculously intense throbs of longing through his whole body. "I thought you knew that."

John made a frustrated sound and batted Sherlock's hand away. "Then maybe you should leave me alone."

They had reached the doors. John reached out a hand to open them; Sherlock laid a hand on his arm. He was starting to grow cold, now that the warmth of adrenaline was fading. "Please don't be angry, John. I... I know I'm not any good at showing it, but... but I-"

John exhaled shakily. "Please don't. You make it unbearable."

"We will be together, John," Sherlock said, staring at John's turned back. He wished he could open a secret door and protect John's heart himself, he wished he could hold it in his hands and protect it from pain and sadness. He would if he could.

"When? After this semester ends? After school ends? When?" John demanded, turning to him. The marks on his face were bright red against his skin.

"I wish you'd told me about your father," Sherlock said.

John hesitated, a hand unconsciously moving to touch the bruise forming on his jaw. "You knew what he was like."

"Has he ever hit you before?" Sherlock said. He thought that if John said 'yes' he would find it intensely difficult not to make good on his threat and see what Mycroft could do about making sure Mr. Watson never worked in a bank in England again.

"No," John said very quietly. "He hasn't."

Sherlock nodded. It made little difference. Mr. Watson had shown himself to be the cowardly brute that Sherlock had always suspected him of being, and he would stop at nothing to make certain that John was never hurt by him again.

"I need to go to bed," John said finally, breaking the unbearable silence between them. "I'm shattered."

Sherlock nodded, lifting a hand. He caught himself at the last minute and lowered it again. It would only make things worse. "Goodnight," he said numbly.

"Goodnight," John said, turning his back on him and disappearing through the school doors.

Sherlock watched him inside. The doors closed with a slap behind him and John's figure disappeared from behind the frosted glass.

\--

John picked up the pillows on his bed and stared fruitlessly underneath them for what could have been the fiftieth time that week. He dropped them again with an impatient sigh and turned to walk back to his desk.

On top of his laptop, stapled several times because of the sheer bulk of the document, was the final copy of the play. It was due in almost exactly four hours. John had more or less finished it by himself. Sherlock had offered to help him more than once, but John had shrugged him off.

He was almost angry that Sherlock was so determined to inflict his presence on John when he had been the one who had told him how necessary, how important it had been for them to keep their distance. He was almost angry that Sherlock didn't seem to understand that John couldn't bear being around him if he had to pretend that they didn't know each other.

He absentmindedly ran a finger down the edge of the play. It was probably not 'A' material. Especially not from Ms. Stone, who had proven to be a very hard marker. Much harder than Hurst, who had been usually fairly lenient when it came to grammar and punctuation.

But Hurst was long gone. He had left shortly after Harvey's odd speech the week before, without saying goodbye to the students and without offering a word of explanation himself for his departure. Rumours, despite Hurst's attempts to stop them, had swirled. Everything from his being arrested for drugs possession to his going to America to get married.

John had to admit that it felt like he had lost an ally. Hurst may have been stern, but he had liked John and respected him. And John was very aware that his list of fans was growing shorter by the day.

He slid the play into a manila folder and put it in the top drawer. The gift from his mother was still sitting there. He admittedly had only half forgotten about it. He just couldn't face opening it. He didn't want to think about his parents for a very long time. It wasn't the first time he had been grateful for the distance between them.

He turned back to the empty dorm room, casting an irritated eye over it. His belongings were in good order. There wasn't really anywhere something could go missing in, something like a mobile phone.

He hadn't seen it for over a week and it would have been a gross lie if he had claimed that he wasn't concerned. Texts to Sherlock that he stupidly hadn't deleted yet, calls to Sherlock that he hadn't removed from the log. It was very damning evidence.

He didn't know whether to be comforted by the fact that no one had confronted him about it so far. They could be biding their time. They could be deciding how best to humiliate him. It was troubling, and he found it hard not to dwell on it every time he lay down in bed at night.

He gave a small jump as his anxious thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the dorm door. He stared at it, without moving. He knew immediately it couldn't be Billy, who always barged in at any time of the day or night.

He slowly walked across and opened it. He couldn't help wondering whether it was someone about to confront him with his missing phone.

"Oh hi," he said, finding himself instead faced with Ben. His insides squirmed with embarrassment at his foolishness.

"Hey, John," Ben said, smiling a small, oddly sheepish smile. "You busy?"

"Not really," John replied. "Need me for something?"

"Well, actually," Ben said, shifting uncomfortably where he was. "Harvey wants to see you."

John stared at him. "Why? Have I... done something?" He immediately wracked his brain for what he could have done to incur Harvey's wrath. The only thing he could think of was the brief altercation between him and Marty on Friday. He touched his cheek. He had three nasty bruises from that night, though only two were from Marty.

"I don't know," Ben said. He hesitated. "I don't think so."

John shrugged. "Well, I better get to his office then I suppose. See you later."

Harvey's office was in the admin block, and was only accessible by appointment. Unless, of course, you were summoned there by Harvey himself.

John had never been called up to the office before so it was a fresh experience for him, sitting on the hard, carved bench opposite Harvey's door. It bore a little silver plaque with "M. Harvey" written in thick black letters.

The receptionist curiously eyed him from her desk, in between occasional outbursts of furious typing and the occasional phone call. John shifted uncomfortably where he was. The bench seemed to have been specifically designed to make the sitter as sore and antsy as possible. There wasn't so much as cushion to soften the experience.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes later and there was a low growl as Hurst's door opened, revealing the principal himself in a navy blue suit. He looked tired and harassed, but broke out into an unconvincing smile as he saw John. "John! Come right in."

He disappeared back inside, leaving the door open behind him. John awkwardly followed him, feeling increasingly like a naughty child. He closed the door behind him and stared around the inside of the office. He had never been inside before. It was quite attractive compared to the other teacher's offices. It had polished floorboards, a wide walnut desk with a neat array of paper and books, and various like niceties like paintings on the walls and a handsome, little marble statuette on the nearby bookshelf.

"Take a seat," Harvey said, still smiling mechanically and gesturing to the two neat, little wooden chairs in front of his desk.

John sat, staring at the principal and increasingly mystified as to why he was there. "Thanks," he said awkwardly.

"Now," Harvey leant back heavily in his chair, pushing his reading glasses up onto his head, "I've heard that there has been a little... ah, tension in the football team. I was content to allow it to peter out, but I think it's gotten to the point where I really must step in. You do understand?"

John gave a half-shrug and nodded. "Yeah."

"I've already spoken to Mr. Hester about his part in the excitement on Friday night and I assure you that he understands the gravity of his actions very well," Harvey went on, in a pompous, sage manner. "But you must also accept that you had an equal share in the wrongdoing-"

"Equal share!" John burst out. "He attacked me!"

"But you did not have to reciprocate!" Harvey responded swiftly.

"What was I supposed to do? Just lay there while he pounded me?" John snapped. "He was punching me in the face."

Harvey held up a dismissive hand. "Now, now. Look, I have given Marty a very stern talking to, but holding grudges will do nothing to help the situation."

"There is no situation," John said, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. "It's all been blown out of proportion!"

"John, John, John!" Harvey said, shaking his head and reminding him annoyingly of Bruce Hester. "We can't just ignore these things and hope they go away! We have to do what's best for all involved!"

"Yeah, and what's that?" John said quietly.

Harvey went slightly pink and sat forward again, giving a small cough. "No one doubts your talent, John. You have undeniable talent. I'm just wondering whether coaching the team and leading them into every game and also handling your studies is become a little... well, much for you."

"You think I should step down as captain too," John said bluntly.

"It's not a matter of what I think; it's a matter of what's right for the team," Harvey replied, the sage manner returning. "It's a matter of what's right for everyone!"

"I can't believe this," John said, staring blankly at him. "We've lost, what, six games? We've won over  _fifty_. I've poured my life into that game."

"No one denies you've been a very conscientious captain," Harvey said hastily. "I understand."

"No, I don't think you do understand," John said in a hard voice. "I've been there at every practice, no matter how fucking  _foul_  the weather-"

"John!" Harvey interjected in a shocked voice.

"I've been at every game," John continued, raising his voice, "no matter how ill, how tired, how  _exhausted_ I was. I've been diplomatic, I've understood everybody's needs. I've done whatever anyone asked of me. I've taken over as goalie when Ben was sick, I've sat on the bench and watched every last minute when I've been too bunged up with flu to kick the ball straight. I've done  _everything_  for that team and... and this is what it comes down to?" His voice almost failed him. He shook his head, turning away from Harvey's infuriatingly taken aback expression.

"John," he said at length, in what he evidently hoped was a soothing tone. "We all know how hard you've worked. This is not a personal vendetta-"

"It's just business," John said in a hard voice. "Well, at least I know where I stand now. I'm glad. I'm glad that everyone has opened up my eyes. It's not about mateship, it's about winning. It's always been about winning. I was stupid to think any different."

Harvey was silent for a few moments. It was obvious he had not expected this reaction. He expected good-natured John Watson to just accept it like a good boy, just keep his mouth closed and smile and nod and make no difficulties. "Your well-being is very important to us, John. That's why the staff, me included, have decided that, despite recent occurrences, you may remain at Redverse after Marty ascends to captainship. You're a good player and I believe you will still serve the team very well."

John gave a humourless laugh. He wanted to comment on how gracious and giving the school was willing to be when it had no choice. If John left Redverse, the team would be one man down and then they would have little chance indeed of finishing the season top of the table.

"Thank you," he said tonelessly. "Can I go now?"

"Ah, no," Harvey said, almost sheepishly. "There is just one more thing I need to discuss with you."

John watched him, again wondering what he could have done. "Yes, sir?"

Harvey stood, wandering across to the window. He put his hands behind his back, clutching his hands together. "I would hate to pry into any student's private life, but sometimes necessity precedes courtesy." He paused. John stared at his back, his heart beginning to race. "I know you are a very well-rounded and well-liked fellow, John. I like to see a young man like that. It's healthy. But sometimes even those sorts can... go a little astray."

John wanted to shout at him to get to the point. His heart was thumping unbearably in his chest.

Harvey finally turned to him, looking very grave. "I will speak frankly. Sherlock Holmes is not the sort of boy you wish to throw in your lot with."

John stared at him. "W-what?" His mind had gone blank with panic. "I'm not- We're not-"

Harvey held up a hand to silence him. "I have heard from two respective parties about this issue, John and in light of this I must believe what I hear."

John didn't speak. He stared at Harvey in stunned silence. He was too in shock to even begin to think who those "parties" might be. But one must have been Marty. There was absolutely no other explanation.

"I promise you I have no interest in your personal life," Harvey went on seriously, "but I must advice you strongly to better choose your associates. Sherlock has no direction and no dedication to anything. He will not aid you in your ambitions and, if I may be frank, may threaten your position in this school in more ways than one."

Something clicked in John's mind. He watched Harvey, wondering if he could possibly mean what he thought he meant. There could be no other explanation. Those words were very plain in their intent. Rapidly, the panic was overrun by anger. He stood up, staring at Harvey with disbelief. "I can't believe this."

"John, sit down," Harvey said tiredly. "No theatrics please."

"You're threatening me," John snapped. "Who put you up to this? Marty? His father?" He paused, wracking his brain furiously. "My father?" he said finally.

Harvey simply looked at him. It was clear that he had had too much experience in this profession to give up his sources so easily. "John, sit down."

"No," John said coldly. "I'm going. Unless there are any other threats you'd like to make."

Harvey sighed in a long-suffering manner. "Fine, fine. Just know that I, the other teachers and the counsellor are all available if you ever need to... you know, talk. We do care, John."

John gave a disgusted scoff and turned for the door. He couldn't stand much more of this crap.

"I know you'll make the right choice, John."

John stopped at the sound of Harvey's calm voice. Even that sounded like a threat. "I have no choice," John said, not turning to him. "You don't need to worry. I won't screw up the team, I won't embarrass the team. I'll be a good boy like I've always been. It is my future after all."

Without waiting for Harvey to reply, he opened the door and left.

\--

Sherlock had set aside an hour after dinner to escape to the darkroom. He hadn't stepped foot inside since the incident with Jim, and he hadn't wanted to. It now held a taint to it. Something that marred the moments he had had spent with John. It made him want to avoid it.

But today it was necessary. He had some business to attend to.

He unlocked the door and slipped inside, making sure to shut the door tight behind him. After he had turned the light on and allowed his eyes to adjust to the foul, sickly hue he could go to work.

He leant against the nearest bench and tugged his phone from his pocket. Since Marty had pilfered it (though he was still very vexed as to how) he had taken to changing the unlock code once a week. It made him feel much safer.

He opened his (very slim) contacts list and scrolled down until he found what he was looking for. The ringing made a very lade  _burr_  sound in the silence of the darkroom. He put it on speaker phone and put it beside him on the bench.

He didn't have to wait very long. No more than three rings at most.

"Mycroft Holmes."

His brother sounded self-important and brisk as usual. Sherlock glowered into the darkness. Of all the humiliating things in his life, this was the very worst.

"Mycroft, it's me."

A moment's silence and then: "Oh! My dear, estranged brother. I had almost forgotten about you, all hidden away in disgrace at boarding school."

"I see you still have nothing better to do than harass me," Sherlock said crossly. "I am sick of your personal assistant calling me. Tell her I don't need her checking up on me every week. And I  _know_  it's her. Telemarketers don't usually sound like they spent three years poncing around at Cambridge."

"Charming and sweet as always, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, sounding amused and unruffled by his brother's usual bile. "Now, enchanting surprise as this is, what is it you want? I'm a busy man, dearest."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Maybe you could explain to me first why you spent the first week of term bombarding me with calls and, frankly, highly tedious texts? Or was that just for your own amusement?"

"Ah," Mycroft said, suddenly becoming uncharacteristically sober. "Well, that is, ah, not a matter for the present. Though I would ever so much like to come to Redverse at your earliest convenience."

"For God's sake, why?" Sherlock demanded. "What is the bloody secret?"

"Like I said," Mycroft said drily, "just say the word and I shall come at whatever is a convenient time for you. We may speak it over then."

"There is no convenient time," Sherlock said irritably. "But if you insist, then Wednesday afternoon would be fine."

"Excellent," Mycroft said, regaining his usual swaggering tone. "Now. What can I do for you?"

"I... I need a favour," Sherlock said, very quickly.

There was silence. "I beg your pardon. Didn't quite catch that?" Mycroft said after a pause.

"You heard me perfectly well," Sherlock growled. "A favour."

"Oh my dear brother, I would be nothing less than delighted to help my younger sibling," Mycroft said, the amusement rich in his voice. "Just say the word! Just utter the syllable!"

"Shut up," Sherlock said sulkily. "I am not proud of this. You better not bring this up ever again or I swear I will show everyone the pictures of you in your chubby stage."

"Very well," Mycroft said, still sounding like he was enjoying himself supremely. "What is it?"

"I need you to... to keep an eye on someone," Sherlock said, lowering his voice.

"I see," Mycroft replied. There was the sound of tapping in the background. He had obviously taken to his computer. "And the name of this unfortunate being would be?"

"Louis Watson," Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Sherlock," he said finally. "We're already playing private I on your boyfriend? Don't you think that might be a good reason to-"

"It has nothing to do with John," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "And if I were you, I would keep references to my boyfriend at a minimum."

"Fine, fine," Mycroft said. "Now. Let's see. Louis Watson. Might as well kick things off with a customary _Google_  search."

Sherlock listened closely while Mycroft tapped the name into his computer. "So? See anything?"

"His name is listed as an employee for the Southampton branch of the  _Walter Harris_  bank," Mycroft said slowly, evidently reading off the screen in front of him, "he has a rather dull  _Facebook_  page with all the usual adornments of paltry familial entertainments captured in over-exposed photos and plastered over the web, and there is a small squib about him in some local paper for his efforts in local conservation... Though I don't think that is the same Louis Watson. He seems to be sporting a rather Dickensian beard."

"No, that's not him," Sherlock said impatiently. "So? Can you do it?"

"Yes, I don't see why not," Mycroft replied. "He doesn't exactly seem to be the Salman Rushdie of the banking world. I don't see why we couldn't keep an eye on him."

"Great," Sherlock said. "Also, one last thing. Would you be able to get his number? His home phone? I'd look in the  _White Pages_ , but by the time I got through all the L. Watsons-"

"Yes, that seems doable," Mycroft cut in briskly. "Dare I ask why you are stalking the father of your true love?"

Sherlock shrugged, forgetting that Mycroft couldn't see him. "I may enlighten you on Wednesday if I'm feeling charitable. I am still not even one inch towards forgiving you, so you can forget it if you think this was some brotherly gesture of mutual affection."

"Just so," Mycroft said amusedly. "Well, I shall see you Wednesday. Do try and keep from being arrested for harassment before then, won't you?"

"Yes, yes, whatever," Sherlock said. "See you."

"I don't suppose I'll extract a 'thank you' for my brotherly efforts?" Mycroft said languidly.

"Don't push your luck," Sherlock said flatly, and hung up.

He slipped it back into his pocket, feeling satisfied. He turned the lights out and ventured back out into the sunlight.

He had made a serious decision the night before. It hadn't been an easy one, but he knew he couldn't just sit idly by and watch what was happening. He had to do something. What he had in mind could be considered drastic, but he didn't know what else to do.

He walked back towards the dorm, deep in thought. He could move about the school more or less unmolested these days. No one insulted him when he walked past, in fact hardly anyone even glanced at him. He had to admit it was a nice novelty. But he was not naive enough to think it did not come at a price.

He reached the dorms and, instead of heading to his own, walked up four doors, past John's to where he knew Marty Hester's room to be. He had never been inside of course, but he had been in the dorms long enough to memorize the layout and each room's residents.

He knocked on the door and waited. There were a few curious looks in his direction from passersby, clearly wondering what Sherlock could have to say to Marty Hester. The school body were becoming increasingly aware of Sherlock's unexplainable protection under Jim and Marty, but certainly none could account for it. It must have been a source of ongoing bafflement for them.

The door opened almost immediately.

Jim's mouth immediately jerking into a smile on seeing him. Sherlock had taken a risk on Marty not being inside. He tended to be in the common room for most of, if not all the weekend so he had made a bet that he would be in there today. Unlike Jim who seemed to like his own company. Unless he needed something from someone, then he became very sociable.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "What a surprise. What a delicious, unaccountable surprise. Do come in, won't you?"

He stepped back, the smile not shifting from his face. Sherlock reluctantly walked in and let himself be sealed in by Jim closing the door.

Sherlock couldn't help a curious sweep over the room. This was the room Jim occupied; this was the room he slept in, plotted in, studied in, fucked Marty Hester in.

Marty's side was reasonably well-kept, except for a few items of clothes on the floor and the unmade bed. Jim's side was meticulously clean. Perhaps even cleaner than John's. The bed was stiffly made; there was a straight pile of books on the bedside table. There was a closed laptop on the desk and a stack of papers. His uniform was hanging neatly on the back of his desk chair. Besides that, there was barely anything.

Jim sat down in his desk chair, swinging it around to face Sherlock. He crossed his legs and tilted his head to one side. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Sherlock? And I do mean pleasure."

Sherlock's lips tightened as he saw Jim's glittering brown eyes slide down from his face to his body. "Stop it," he said coldly. "I'm not here to play games."

"Mmm," Jim said absently, his eyes reaching Sherlock's thighs. "That's all we do, Sherlock. We play games. It's why we work so well. It's why you need me to mindfuck you over and over." He finally looked Sherlock in the eyes. "I really thought you'd put more of a fight up than this. I really did. I'm almost disappointed that you're quite so easy."

"Did you put Marty up to dumping John as captain?" Sherlock said in a hard voice, ignoring Jim's teasing prattle.

Jim let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes. "Must you always bring up the pet whenever we're together?" He sat back in his chair with a snort. "Ruins my appetite."

Sherlock hated the way Jim spoke about them. "When we're together." He hated how he made it sound like it was something dirty and suggestive, when Sherlock couldn't stand the sight of him. "Why can't you face me? Why do you have to go crawling to your minions?"

Jim cocked his head at him, the smile returning to his lips. "Never been one to get bloodstains on my hands. If you know what I mean. Like to keep my distance when it comes to dispatching brainless idiots like your boyfriend. As for minions, I don't know what it is. People just seem to... to  _gravitate_  towards me. What can I say? I'm a people person."

"You're sick," Sherlock growled, though he knew his threats, his anger had no effect on Jim whatsoever. "I'm telling you, I'm warning you to leave him alone. Do you understand me?"

Jim laughed. A mocking, teasing laugh as though Sherlock had just done something very sweet and droll.

Sherlock took a step towards him. He reached a hand down to grip the collar of Jim's shirt, balling it up in his fist. Jim's eyes flickered shut, he curled up into Sherlock's hand. "Tell me you understand me."

"Oh, Sherlock," Jim said softly, eyes still shut. His breath was hot against Sherlock's skin. Goosebumps were erupting up his arms and down his neck. "I know what you'd like in bed. All that aggression, all that anger. Mmm, yes. I know how frustrated you get, how badly you need to let it all out."

Sherlock let go of him and stepped back. He was beginning to burn all over. He was too slow to hide it. Jim opened his eyes and saw with triumph the furious flush that had overcome Sherlock's features.

"Blushing for me? How sweet," he cooed."

He slowly stood. Sherlock took a faltering step back and found himself almost flush against the door. Jim wasn't smiling now. His features were almost reptilian in their coldness, in the intense hardness in his eyes.

"You stole John's phone," Sherlock said, struggling to keep control of the situation.

"When will you tell him?" Jim said softly, now barely more than a foot from him.

"Tell him what?" Sherlock said breathlessly, his heart starting to thump monstrously in his chest.

Jim smirked darkly. "Tell him that we kissed-"

"We did not kiss," Sherlock said, gritting his teeth.

"That you want me," Jim said, halting a bare few inches from him. He held up a hand and touched Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock jerked in fright and tried to step back, only succeeding in kicking the door with his heels. He slapped Jim's hand away, trying to distinguish each bubbling emotion inside of him. They were beginning to morph into a sickening stew and he couldn't find where one ended and the other began.

He wanted to be disgusted by Jim. He wanted to revile the very ground he walked on. He should have, those cold eyes, that cruel smile, that unfeeling spite towards everyone and everything should have made him sick. It did. It truly did. But then what was this confusing heat that kept mixing with it?

It was unbearable holding Jim's gaze. He wanted desperately to look away, but he wouldn't let himself show weakness by faltering like that. Jim smirked and his eyes flickered down to Sherlock's mouth and up again.

"You'll never be as clever as me, Sherlock. You'll never outwit me. You can concede now. I promise I'll be nice to the blonde toy. I'll let him walk away unscathed. Just..." His voice trembled. "Just tell me... tell me you belong to me. I need to hear it. I need to own that mind, that cold, calculating mind. You're more brilliant than even you realise. You could be so much more if you just let me harness those gifts of yours."

"Fuck off," Sherlock said coldly.

Jim let out a melodic laugh. "I would be disappointed if you gave up without a fight."

He clutched Sherlock's shirt tight in his hand and the next thing Sherlock was conscious of was Jim's mouth hard and rough on his. His hands found Jim's shoulders to shove him away. He hesitated. Jim heatedly tore his mouth open.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he sharply pushed Jim away with more force than he had intended. Jim hurtled back against his desk, hitting it hard and falling forward onto his hands and knees.

He looked up at Sherlock, panting harshly and flushed bright red.

"That was very silly, Sherlock," he said, through wheezing breaths. "John will pay for that."

"I'll kill you," Sherlock spat. "Touch him and I'll kill you!"

Jim got back to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pointedly straightening his shirt. "And what do you think John Watson would say-"

He gave a mock gasp.

"What he would  _do_ if I were to tell him about what you've been up to behind his back?" he said in a theatrical tone of concern.

"He'd never believe you," Sherlock said too quickly. It was the wrong thing to say. He felt a inward wince for his own insensibility.

Jim didn't seem to note this aspect of the claim. "No, you're right. People do tend to respect visual evidence more than mere words." He glanced down, biting his lip in a mocking fashion.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Sooner or later you'll screw up. And I'll be there to make sure you get exactly what you deserve."

He turned to leave, but before he could turn the knob Jim gave a low snigger behind him. Sherlock jerked his head back towards him.

"Awful lack of security in these old dorm rooms," Jim said offhandedly, wandering across to his desk and running a pale finger along the edge. "I'm always concerned of thieves myself."

"What are you going on about?" Sherlock snapped.

Jim glanced up at him. "Hm? Oh, yes. I was so concerned in fact that I installed some CCTV of my own."

Sherlock's insides went rapidly cold. He stared at him, words failing him for the first time in a long time. Jim held out a finger, pointing past Sherlock to Marty's side of the room. "There." He jerked his thumb behind him. "And there."

Sherlock blankly stared at him, trying to keep the panic that was beginning to spread over his body at bay.

"Innovative, no?" He smirked widely, his eyes glinting with triumph.

Sherlock opened the door without being aware of moving and escaped out into the corridor. He slammed the door behind him and walked quickly up to his own room, almost walking into every person in his path.

He felt sick. He felt physically ill to his stomach. His loathing towards another person could never have been more potent than what it was at that moment towards Jim Moriarty. But the hatred he felt for himself was far, far worse. The smell of Jim's cologne was thick in his nostrils, and he hadn't ever felt so close to vomiting where he stood.

_End of Chapter Twenty-Five_


	26. Chapter 26

The word knocked the wind out of him even before the football hit his stomach. The ball itself hit him with such force that he was knocked almost clean off his feet. The cold, sodden ground sunk rapidly through the seat of his shorts, and at the same time a heated flush rushed up his neck and spread across his face like a sudden fever.

He didn't want to look up and see the expression on the face of the boy who had flung the insult so incidentally at him. He didn't know if the kick, which had hit his gut with almost painful precision, had been aimed at him, but nothing could have been achieved to better humiliate him in front of his teammates.

They ringed around him in a mud-splattered semi-circle. He looked around their faces, searching for one that contained a shred of sympathy or anger on his behalf. He looked at Billy and met two stony, impenetrable eyes. The fury on his behalf was being very well-contained, or else it no longer existed.

Finally, he hoisted himself back up onto his feet. Ben had jogged over from the goal to see what was happening. He was the only one who looked at John with any amount of sympathy.

The referee's whistle blasted, breaking through his embarrassed fog and bringing his attention sharply back onto the game. His team was awarded a penalty for his fall, though nobody on his team seemed to overly appreciate the pay-out from the disruption.

Marty took it. It was almost a given that he would. He had barely glanced at John when he had fallen. He didn't look at him even to gloat at his embarrassment. He seemed to have achieved what he had set out to do, and now tormenting John was a waste of time, something that others could achieve while he kept his eyes on other, more important goals.

As he kicked it, John couldn't help hoping he would miss. It would bring him down a peg in the eyes of a team who were becoming increasingly awed by their new captain. But, of course, he did not. The ball, as though fitted with a homing device, sailed into the net, past the outstretched fingertips of the goalie. John sighed under his breath.

He watched as Marty was surrounded by the other players, all slapping his back in a tentative, cautious manner. They didn't dare treat him as boisterously as they usually treated goal-scorers. He was treated with an irritating carefulness, as though he may explode like a time bomb at any given moment.

The whistle blast signifying half-time couldn't come too soon. John waited for the rest of the team to wander off the pitch and then slowly followed. He sought Ben out near the drinking tap and immediately made his way to him. Ben looked at him as he approached, giving him little more than a nod and raised eyebrows in recognition.

"Are you alright?" he said quietly, eyes drifting away from John's face to the team's bench some eight yards behind him.

"I'm fine," John replied. He cupped his hands under the tap and brought the cold water over his face and hair, it trickled down his neck and into the collar of his football shirt.

He glanced over his shoulder to where Ben was staring. "Just fine."

"It's bullshit what they did to you," Ben said quietly, looking back at him. John appreciated, not for the first time, the openness and honesty of his last, remaining ally. He was steady, unwavering in his moods and actions. So different to everyone else around him. "Marty's turned into such a prick. Even for him. I don't even know him anymore. Everyone's too shit scared to stand up to him."

John tried to shrug it off. He had been through everything so many times in his mind. He was sick of talking about it. Sick of hearing about what a prick Marty was. He'd heard it from others too, uneasy apologisers who spoke in low voices to him in the common room and at dinner. He gritted his teeth against the familiar rush of resentment.

"It wouldn't be so bad, if it hadn't been for that tool on the pitch," John finally replied. Ben glanced up from filling his water bottle. "I can take being ignored, but he was a real piece of work."

"What did he say?" Ben asked, raising his eyebrows.

John opened his mouth. The word was on his lips. Ben looked at him, waiting. John closed it again, with a shrug. "Nothing. Just stupid shit. You know."

Ben didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. John was thankful for it. He had never said the word aloud in his life, and he didn't want to start today just in the name of repeating the ignorance of someone he didn't even know. He licked his cracked lips, trying to close off the anxious thoughts now edging around the corners of his mind.

"We better get back," Ben said finally, after taking an extended drink from his bottle. The water trickled down his dirty face, leaving clean rivers from the corners of his lips to his chin.

John nodded. They turned and walked back together. He ignored the glances of his other teammates, not wanting to distinguish the regretful from the resentful. They were all the same to him now.

"John, you're sitting out this next half." John stared at Marty. He hadn't even looked at him when he had said the words; his eyes were fixed across the field to where the opposing team was clustered.

"Excuse me, captain," John said, somehow finding the composure to speak. "But why?"

"You're clearly tired," Marty barked, still not looking at him. "Tired players are liabilities."

" _He_  kicked the ball into  _me_ ," John said, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice. "Why am I being punished?"

"This isn't a witch hunt, John," one of the other players said, in an infuriatingly sage tone. John didn't turn to see who had spoken.

But he knew it was exactly what this was. If not a witch hunt, then a fag hunt. He was being hunted down with every increasing effort to humiliate and punish him.

"He was playing fine," Ben said indignantly. John felt a rush of gratitude towards him, not for the first time. "More than fine. Why don't you send off Billy while you're at it, if you're so worried about players being tired?"

He jerked his head to where Billy was slouched on the end of the bench, still struggling to catch his breath, and coated with slick sweat. Marty looked in his direction, but stayed silent.

"Fuck off, Ben," Billy said thickly, wiping a layer of perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Come on," Marty said, not taking any notice of him. "It's time. John, sit down and don't argue with me."

The unsaid "I'm the captain" was implied, and hung in the air like a concealed insult. The other players slunk off the bench and back towards the pitch. John watched them go, feeling extremely isolated by himself on the sideline. He was glad that the spectators were too preoccupied with the increasing probability of their first win in a month to pay much attention to the disgraced ex-captain, sitting alone on the bench.

Nevertheless he felt like he was some sort of sideshow to the main event. He could almost feel the stolen glances in his direction. It must have been fascinating to the onlookers to see this spot of politics in play. John's downfall, Marty's uprising and the apparent magic touch he had brought to the team. They hadn't even finished their first game with Marty at the helm, and the crowds were already double what they had been at the last game John had captained. It was the final humiliation in a long line of humiliations.

He felt immature and guilty for it, but he couldn't help quietly begging from the sidelines that his team would lose. Just one lost game under Marty, just something to prove that Marty Hester was not a god sent to rescue their team from disgrace.

But they won. Naturally, they won. It was their first win in weeks and John hadn't so much as had a hand in it. The score was 2-1, and though it could not have been said to have been the result of fantastic playing on the behalf of his team, it was a win nonetheless and nothing could change that fact for the parents.

John picked up his kitbag from the mud and walked through the ecstatic crowd, with his head down. He wanted more than anything to avoid notice. He didn't want to elevate his status from sideshow to freak show: the failed ex-captain, the fallen hero. Luckily, or ironically, their attentions were firmly on their victorious team, and he barely received even a fleeting glance on his way through. He was jostled almost on all sides.

He watched Ben be enveloped in a hug by his mother, while his balding father patted him enthusiastically on the back, mouth moving at a hundred miles per hour. He walked past without stopping to invite Ben's sympathies again. He reached the other side of the mob with the sense of having delved through a thick, grasping forest.

He stood a few feet away from them, combing his eyes over the heads and bodies of his entwined teammates and their parents. He avoided the cluster of students who had come to watch the drama unfold, no doubt hoping that some sort of brawl between the new and fallen captains would erupt, and not having anything but a long-awaited win to appease themselves with.

He saw Mr. Harvey alongside a small throng of parents. He was talking very animatedly with them, his face ruddy with excitement. John gritted his teeth, looking away towards the school.

He walked back by himself, wanting no part in the celebrations that would no doubt follow. Not that he would welcome at the celebrations anyway.

At the top of the stairs he turned and stared back down to where the floodlights were raining down harsh, white light on the players and parents below. He wondered if they had even noticed he was gone. He shifted his kitbag from one shoulder to the other.

He was too preoccupied with the spectacle below to notice someone come up behind him. It wasn't until they laid their hand on his arm that he became, abruptly, aware of their presence. He gave a convulsive jump, and snapped his head towards them.

"Sherlock," he said, exhaling and putting a hand over his exhilarated heart. "God, you scared me."

Sherlock's pale skin almost glowed in the darkness. He was wearing a navy jumper and jeans, and was carrying a book under his arm. "Sorry," he said quietly.

There was no kiss or even a touch. Sherlock, for all his sagacious talk on the importance of their heightened discretion, had been the most active party in breaking his own rules. His insistence that they stay apart seemed at odds with his frequent dogging of John's steps. His sporadic appearances increasingly tested John's stoicism, and it was difficult to resist the temptation to break down the newly built walls between them. John didn't want to be the one to crumble.

But tonight there was no such temptation. Sherlock kept his distance, and it was clear to John that he was endeavouring to do so.

"I thought I'd just come and see how the game went," he said finally, when John didn't speak. "I saw some of it."

"Oh... yeah," John said, shifting where he was. "Not bad."

"I saw you on the bench," Sherlock said, with his usual bluntness.

"I don't want to talk about it," John replied tartly, brushing past him.

Sherlock followed, closer to him than before. John could smell his shampoo and the slightest tinge of cigarette smoke. "Why don't you leave the team? Surely now is the time to leave. After all they've done, you don't owe them anything."

John gave a short, humourless laugh. "You know that's not an option."

"Why not?" Sherlock said, almost eagerly. "We could both leave. Leave all of this crap behind us."

John studied his face under the overhanging lamp. He knew better than to try and read Sherlock's emotions through his facial features, which could be misleading at the best of times and impenetrable at the worst.

"Leave?" he said blankly. "Leave where? Redverse?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his features unreadable. John had the feeling he was being totally serious. It would have been a tasteless joke, but in earnest it was even more insulting.

"And go where?" he said. "Live off the land?"

"I'm being serious," Sherlock said, taking a step towards him. A hand moved, almost as though to take John's in his, but he seemed to catch himself, and rapidly lowered it back to his side. "Why couldn't we just go?"

"I'm being serious too," John replied, hardly able to keep the annoyance from his voice. "Where the hell would I go? How could you even suggest something like that?"

Sherlock took a step back, as though John's words had stung. For a long time he didn't speak, he just watched John in silence, eyes hooded by the darkness and his hands balled up beside him. Maybe to ensure he didn't try and touch John again.

"Look," John said reasonably. He felt a pang of guilt for taking out his frustrations on Sherlock. "I know we're doing the right thing. I'm just sick of... everything. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I just want to try and get through the rest of this year."

Sherlock nodded, his pale forehead cutting through the gloom like a white knife. He stepped towards John, and the hand that had been dithering next to his hip finally rose and touched John's mouth. His fingertips curled underneath John's chin and his thumb slid slowly over John's lips.

John didn't push him away, or even shrug away his hand. How long had it been now since he had felt Sherlock's hands on him? It felt like months. Sherlock's skin was exactly as he remembered it, the smoothness and coldness. It triggered memories that made the hairs on his arms stand up violently on end.

Sherlock lifted a hand and ghosted it down the underside of John's arm, his fingers touching every sensitive, susceptible inch of his skin. John lifted his head up for the kiss he was certain was going to follow, but Sherlock suddenly seemed to realise how close they were and rapidly broke away from him.

John stared after him, torn between the knowledge that the more contact he sought from Sherlock, the harder their continued separation would be, and the impulse to just do what his body wanted at that moment.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. And he sounded it. John had never heard him sound so fraught, like he might crumble at any moment. It frightened him, that weakness to Sherlock's voice. He had never heard him sound like that.

"It's ok," he said. "I'm sorry too."

"No," Sherlock said hoarsely. His hands were clasped almost anxiously in front of him; his face was hooded by the darkness again. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

John didn't know what to say, so he fiddled with the band of his kitbag, glancing over his shoulder towards the stairs. "I better get inside. The team'll be coming up soon."

Sherlock nodded, still so quiet and breakable in the darkness. John would have given anything to put his arms around him and hold him and ask what was troubling him so deeply. He wished he had the courage to ask, but he knew the more he asked of Sherlock, the harder it would be to continue on the way they had been.

"I'll see you around then," John said, his stomach giving a regretful twinge.

Sherlock nodded again, either unable or unwilling to speak. John left him to go back to the dorms, but he hadn't gone more than three steps when he felt the hand on his arm again. "Wait, John."

John had almost been expecting it. He turned, trying to arrange his features into a convincingly surprised expression. Sherlock's eyes darted over his face; he dropped his arm. "Let's go somewhere next weekend. Let's get away from the school."

"Really?" John said, his pretended surprise morphing into genuine surprise. "Do you think that's such a good idea? Jim could still be watching."

Sherlock gave a small jump at the mention of Jim's name. "We'd be careful," he said quickly, perhaps to obscure it. "I could leave first and meet you outside a coffee shop or something."

John had to admit that his desire to have even an hour alone with Sherlock was sorely outweighing his good sense. "Alright," he said, careful to disguise the extent of his eagerness. "Where could we meet?"

"That coffee shop outside of town," Sherlock replied quietly.

John knew he was talking about the coffee shop they'd gone to the day Sherlock had found his magazine. His  _sister's_  magazine, he mentally corrected himself. It almost made him blush to think how naive he had been the last time they'd been there. He felt like he had aged terribly since the former year. He felt weighted down with experiences and concerns that he hadn't had before his relationship with Sherlock.

"Ok," he said finally. "I'll see you next weekend then."

\--

Sherlock had scheduled the meeting with his brother in the evening when he knew most of the school would be at dinner. That way he was assured the most privacy possible. He had things to discuss with Mycroft that he, more than anything, wanted to keep unknown to anyone other than themselves.

Mycroft was waiting for him in the administration office. It was almost impossible for anyone outside of the school to get in without passing through there, and making their presence known to the secretary.

She barely glanced at either of the brothers, though her eyes wavered perhaps half a second longer on Mycroft. He was, Sherlock conceded, well-dressed in his navy blue suit and patent leather shoes. But his efforts earned him little recognition from the receptionist, and certainly none from his brother.

"Come on," Sherlock said, grasping his brother's arm before he could say anything in greeting- or about the circumstances they had last parted in. "Let's get this over and done with."

"Good God, Sherlock," Mycroft said, as his brother led him almost forcefully by the arm. "Must you handle me in such a manner?"

"We don't have long," Sherlock replied shortly. "Dinner will be over in ten minutes."

He would have added that he didn't want to spend any more time with Mycroft than what was absolutely necessary, but he had the feeling that Mycroft knew that that was implied. His brother gave a withering, little nod, but wrenched his arm pointedly from Sherlock's grip.

To his credit, he didn't slow Sherlock down with his usual dawdling stride, but that didn't even begin to tug at the strings of the enraged knot that had wound itself around and around Sherlock's stomach in the past months. He couldn't even begin to address the intense antipathy he felt upon seeing his brother; it was buried beneath layers of determined numbness. He couldn't even begin to address what he felt, when he had spent every last moment since last seeing his brother trying to forget what he had done. He had almost succeeded, but even he knew that he couldn't ignore his brother forever.

"Where are we going?" Mycroft said, panting a little as he strode along behind him. "Not that I'm not enjoying the scenic route."

"Outside," Sherlock replied, not slowing his pace. "We can't risk being overheard."

"Naturally. Outside." Mycroft sighed. "I should have known. Not that I'm afraid of a little wind, or rain. Or blistering cold."

Sherlock didn't bother replying. He didn't stop until they were safely outside of the school doors.

"Is this it?" Mycroft said coolly.

Sherlock glanced at him. "This way." He jerked his head towards the stairs.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at him in a long-suffering manner. Nevertheless he followed him, and together they wandered down the stairs to where the playing fields were drying off after yet another morning's drenching. Sherlock kept a good two feet in front of his brother, trying to obscure how uncomfortable the water beginning to pool in his school shoes was.

"Are we far enough from civilization?" Mycroft said irritably, squelching along behind him. "If you plan to cut my throat and shove my body into the nearest bush you might as well get it over and done with. I refuse to take another step." He stopped, piercing the pointed tip of his umbrella into the soft, soggy grass beside him.

Sherlock stopped in spite of himself. The wind was beginning to sting his cheeks, and his shoes and socks were uncomfortably damp. "Fine. So? What have you found?"

Mycroft straightened his coat, dusting off the sleeves with impatient jerks of his hand. "About what? Your little friend's father?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Yes! Don't play games with me."

"Nothing," Mycroft replied, straightening his cuffs in an infuriatingly unaffected manner.

"Nothing?" Sherlock repeated, narrowing his eyes. "At all?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. "Nothing that would interest you. Face it, Sherlock. Mr. Watson isn't the delinquent you'd like him to be. He's a banker. He goes to the same holiday house every year, and he has a very pretty, blonde wife. That's about the extent of Mr. Watson's remarkable life."

Sherlock stared at him. He didn't know what he had expected: a mistress, dodgy dealings in his bank, an illegitimate child. Something. But it seemed the only crime Mr. Watson was guilty of was treating his son like dirt. "Fine," he said impatiently. "But did you look everywhere? There has to be something. You haven't seen him, Mycroft. If you did, you wouldn't tell me there's nothing."

Mycroft dropped his hands down to his sides with a sigh. "From as far as I can see the only thing he's guilty of is having a totally uninspired existence. If he's committed any other offence, it isn't within my scope."

"So widen your scope!" Sherlock said irritably.

"I can't widen my scope without more resources, and unfortunately I can't justify utilizing more resources just to chase after your boyfriend's parents," Mycroft replied placidly. "It just can't be done."

" _Fine_ ," Sherlock snapped again. He knew Mycroft was right, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Well, there's something else too. I need money."

Mycroft sighed theatrically, massaging his forehead with his fingertips. "For what? Sherlock, I'm not an ATM, I can't just vomit out money whenever you need it."

"Look, this is important," Sherlock said in a hard voice. "You owe me. After what you did, money is the least you can do."

"For God's sake, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, his infinite patience coming to a sudden and unexpected end.

His brow was furrowed. Sherlock stared at him. He hadn't had a good look at him since he'd arrived. He suddenly noticed how tired and pallid his brother looked, when he was usually the very picture of robust health.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock said, forgetting his resentment for a moment.

Mycroft tutted impatiently and turned to scan the field, and the trees bordering it. "Sometimes you are such a child."

"Why? Because I didn't like that you forced yourself on my boyfriend?" Sherlock retorted. "You have always lived by your own warped rules, Mycroft."

"Let's not argue," his brother replied, his countenance smoothing and the irritation disappearing again behind a facade of calm. "We have the rest of our lives to do that."

"I wish you'd just tell me what the hell is going on," Sherlock said.

Mycroft looked at him steadily. He pursed his lips together, rolling the words around in his mouth like he was tasting them. "I've gotten wind that you have a new student in your year."

Sherlock started. "Ji- Moriarty?"

Mycroft looked narrowly at him. "You've met him then."

Sherlock could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks. He turned his face away to the trees along the far end of the field, trying to drive the blood out of his face. "Yes, I've met him."

He'd kissed him. Twice. God, if Mycroft ever discovered what he had done. He'd never let him forget it.

Sherlock's stomach lurched. "Briefly. Barely," he said hurriedly, avoiding his brother's eye.

Mycroft touched his arm with a gloved hand. "Whatever your relationship to Jim Moriarty is, you must cease it immediately."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise; he hadn't ever heard his brother speak with such gravity. He wasn't teasing now; he wasn't trying to wind his brother up. He was serious. "Why? What do you know?"

Mycroft gave a half shrug, and looked away from him. He picked a handkerchief out from his pocket and dabbed at his nose. "You have to trust me when I say that Moriarty is not one to be trifled with, Sherlock. You might think it's a game, that there's nothing to lose but your dignity, but that's the trap he sets."

"How do you know so much?" Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft glanced at him, his nose red from where he'd been rubbing at it. "I know I've given you little reason to trust me, but on this matter I am certain that closeness to that boy can do you no good. In fact-"

He dug a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a handsome, black leather wallet. He fished out a business card from it and held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock gingerly took it, staring down at the yellowy paper bearing his brother's name in handsome black font.

"If Jim Moriarty attempts anything, if he tries to worm his way into your confidence, call me. That's my private number. You'll always get a hold of me on it," he said, his eyes grave and stern. "Will you do that?"

Sherlock had a feeling that he had bypassed "confidence" a long time ago. Jim was well and truly under his skin, in his head, in his blood now. It was too late to admit just how reckless he had been.

However, he nodded and didn't say a word. Admitting just how close Jim had already gotten to him would mean having to admit how stupidly, how selfishly he had allowed himself to stray into Jim's hands. He couldn't do that.

"Good," Mycroft said, seeming satisfied. "Now," he turned to face the school, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "How much money do you need? Dare I ask what it's for?"

"I'll tell you as soon as it's done," Sherlock replied, his mind still on Jim. "I need a substantial amount, and you may never see it back. But it's absolutely necessary that I have this money, you understand? It's vital."

Mycroft studied his face for a moment and then turned away with a shrug. "Very well. I know better than to expect straight answers from you. You do so love to shroud yourself in mystery."

"Good," Sherlock said, feeling a weight lift off his chest. He had been counting on Mycroft's acquiescence. There was no question of his being able to afford it, but whether he would be willing had been another matter.

"Very well," Mycroft said. "We'd best return. I'm sure your sudden disappearance will be starting to concern your warden."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said, but he began to walk back with him.

Dinner had ended and the students were beginning to disperse over the school when they arrived back. They attracted more than a few curious looks as they made their way towards the admin. Mycroft seemed to enjoy the glances towards his expensive clothing, and adopted more than a slight swagger as they went along.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sherlock said quietly to him, as they passed a gaggle of wide-eyed thirteen-year-olds.

"I don't know what you mean," Mycroft replied silkily.

They turned the corner, and Mycroft's poise abruptly dissipated. He stopped short where he was. Sherlock came to a clumsy halt beside him.

Like a dark-haired sphinx he stood in their way, between their destination and them. It was as though he had known they would come that way, but it probably had more to do with the fact that their route took them past one of Marty's group's favourite haunts: the drinking taps outside of the admin.

His eyes were already fixed on them. Sherlock's insides were coiling and uncoiling violently inside of him. Mycroft shuddered into a walk beside him, and Sherlock forced himself to follow him.

Marty and his friends hadn't even looked up, and as they passed Mycroft and he barely garnered a glance from any of them. Except one. They walked through the doors into the admin, and both seemed to breathe the same sigh of relief.

It was premature.

"Mycroft, what an unprecedented pleasure."

Sherlock span around before he could stop himself. For Mycroft to know Jim was one thing, but for Jim to know Mycroft was too much of a perfect coincidence.

Jim's eyes were boring into Mycroft; he hadn't even looked at Sherlock. Mycroft stared back at him, calm and unruffled, but with the slightest pink tinge to his cheeks. He jerked his head at him in a very brief bow. "Moriarty. I heard you had slithered your way into Redverse."

"I thought you might have." Jim smiled very widely. "I know you keep little Sherlock's interests very much  _at heart_."

Mycroft's lips thinned. Sherlock had never seen his brother look so livid, or like he would more like to wrap his fingers around someone's throat. "I will be watching this school very closely. You can count on that."

Moriarty raised his eyebrows in an almost challenging motion; a smirk was playing idly on his mouth. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Finally, he looked at Sherlock. He swept him up and down with one caressing look, as though he was touching every inch of Sherlock's body with that one, incidental glance. He had looked at Mycroft like he was staring down at opponent, but he looked at Sherlock as though he were exchanging a heated glance with a lover. It turned Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock had barely caught his breath before Jim had turned on his heel and disappeared back beyond the doors. For anyone looking on from the outside it wouldn't have appeared to be anything but the most inconsequential of meetings between two people who barely knew each other, but Sherlock knew his brother- and Jim too well to be fooled.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed, taking his brother's arm and dragging him close to him.

Mycroft shook his head briefly, his lips still clamped shut. He walked to the doors of the school without a word, though everything about his person had suddenly taken on the appearance of someone recently freed from concrete.

"Are you going to tell me what just happened?" Sherlock said angrily, when they were safely outside the doors.

"It's nothing," Mycroft replied, seeming to regain some of his composure. "It's not important for the moment. Just... just promise you'll do as I said. Stay away from him."

Before Sherlock could speak, Mycroft had pulled himself out of his grip and was descending the stairs to the car park.

\--

The rumour had appeared almost overnight and spread like a virus over the school. John couldn't turn a corridor corner, or enter a classroom without hearing it from at least three different mouths. It was impossible to tell from whence it came, because it was repeated so many times a day, from so many corners of the school that the lines between teller and listener were blurred.

He sat down at breakfast on Saturday to a bubbling undercurrent of intrigue. He ate in silence, letting the unsympathetic voices wash over him. He noticed that the only person not engaging in the barbed chatter was Ben opposite him.

He caught John's eye and smiled, very wanly. John didn't smile back; he ate what he could of his cereal and tried to filter out the voices of his classmates around him.

They were allowed out of the school grounds after ten o' clock, so he paced the length of the gates until the groundskeeper finally came to let him out. He gave John a withering, long-suffering look, as though he was the sole cause of all of his many concerns and took what to John felt like an unnecessarily long time with the keys, which hung on a frayed piece of orange string from his belt.

Once John was free he set off at a brisk pace towards the town. His layers of clothes were becoming ever lighter as winter seemed to draw closer to its end. The air was definitely becoming dryer and the mornings weren't quite so barbarous when he had to rise early for football practice.

He knew he was early. He hadn't meant to leave for at least another thirty minutes, but his restlessness and the impossibility of escaping the rumour while in the confines of the school had prompted him to deviate from that plan.

He wandered down the main street, sparsely populated at this time of the morning. Besides the pubs and the one club, it boasted only a few helpful shops: one selling hardware, a hairdresser's, a grocer's, a butcher's, and a general store. All seemed vaguely yellowing and as though they had been left over from a bygone era, an era when they had been clean and useful, and not in bad need of repair and repainting.

He stopped by the general store and bought a packet of gum, and then wandered out of the mournful scope of the main street, and towards the outer reaches of town.

It was here that he had walked with Sherlock all those months ago. It felt like someone else's life, or the memory of a film seen many years ago.

He lingered outside of the cafe. Brief flickers of his past memories there were stirred. Their banter over Sherlock's liking for black coffee, and John's preference for a sugary concoction of froth and milk. It almost made him smile, but he banished it to the recesses of his mind. Things were different now.

He leant against a crumbling brick wall shouldering a garden next to the cafe, and passed his wallet from hand to hand. He still hadn't recovered his phone. He had come close several times to telling Sherlock about it, but he had stopped himself short each time. It seemed too childish, too inept to call on Sherlock yet again to get him out of a mess.

He cast his memory back a couple of weeks prior, to when Sherlock had stood between him and his father. It still made him fiercely, foolishly proud. His father may have been shorter than Sherlock by a good foot or so, but he was solidly built and had always been proud of retelling his part in various pub scuffles in his youth. He could probably have knocked Sherlock out cold.

It had been a truly brave act, but if John suggested so to Sherlock he knew he would have scoffed or shrugged it off. And not even in a show of false modesty. It was just the way he was. So arrogant when it came to some things, so unintentionally humble when it came to others.

He turned his head back up the street and spotted a tall, lithe figure just turning the corner from the high street. It was undoubtedly Sherlock. He had the same measured strides, hands in his pockets, head directed firmly forward and never turning idly to the left or right like most people's did. John knew that his eyes however would be darting everywhere, taking in everything and everyone. He seemed ever hungry for details to file away in his memory. He seemed to have John in his sights, even from a hundred or so feet away and made an almost straight beeline towards him.

When he came close enough, John could see he was wearing his familiar dark jeans and a black coat buttoned up to his throat. It made his skin look even paler than usual and his hair even darker in comparison.

John straightened up from the wall and rubbed at the backs of his legs where the bricks had left sore marks in his skin. Sherlock came to a halt in front of him.

John was suddenly struck by the floundering thought of whether or not he should kiss him hello. It was difficult to guess whether Sherlock expected it or not; his face was blank. He hadn't moved to touch John, or even spoken.

John took a faltering step forward and then stopped, his hands balled up next to him. "Hi," he said awkwardly. He didn't know what he had expected, but Sherlock's blank expression was not it.

Finally, as though suddenly animated by John's clumsy, monosyllabic greeting he gave a small jerk, and a not altogether convincing smile sprang onto his lips. "Hi," he said, not making any move to touch him. His hands were buried in the pockets of his coat. "Let's sit down."

John followed him to a table outside the cafe, under the same red and white umbrellas they'd sat under the last time. John glanced up at the one above them and noticed that it was dirtier than he remembered it being. He looked back at Sherlock. "So-"

He was interrupted by a waitress in a vibrant pink shade of lipstick that stood out like a beacon against her black skirt and apron. "Morning. What can I get you?" She had a sparkly blue pen pressed against a notepad.

"Black coffee," Sherlock replied, not looking at her.

"I'll just have a lemonade," he said, breaking Sherlock's gaze to glance with a brief smile at the waitress. He didn't want to revisit the past by ordering a cappuccino. It seemed quaint and foolish. That had been then and this was now. They weren't about to embark on cheerful banter about their beverage choice today.

The waitress retreated inside, and John almost regretted her departure. Now he was alone with Sherlock and the silence between them was almost stifling. Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off of him or barely blinked since they'd sat down.

John tried to watch him back, but it was like staring into the sun. He ended up fixing his eyes on random objects about the place: a pot plant behind Sherlock, the barriers next to them advertising _Ricco_ brand coffee, a car across the road with an ugly dent on its right side. He could feel his face beginning to flush, and almost resented Sherlock for bringing him here and then proceeding to do nothing but stare at him.

He considered blundering into some small talk, but then decided rather abruptly against it. "Did you hear what's going around school?"

Sherlock didn't react immediately. He held his gaze and then finally gave a very small nod in affirmation. "It got out rather fast."

"I don't even understand how something like that can happen," John replied, unable to keep all of the anger out of his tone. He clutched the salt shaker in his hand, grinding a few stray grains of salt with the base. "It's so fucking messed up. They get away with talking about people like that. The shit they were saying-"

"It has nothing to do with you," Sherlock broke in, almost hurriedly.

"I didn't say it had anything to do with me," John retorted, the anger flaring up more quickly than he had intended. "God. Am I really that self-centred?"

"You're taking it too personally," Sherlock said, only serving to rile him up further.

"How can you hear people talk like that about someone?" he said angrily. "He was a decent person. He was the only teacher in the school who ever gave a damn about his students, and wanted to help them."

"You thought he gave a damn about us?" Sherlock repeated dubiously.

John bristled. "If you knew what he-"

He stopped himself. Sherlock watched him, his eyes sharp. He almost seemed to know what John had been about to say.

"What?" he said softly.

It was less a question than a demand. John felt the weight in the word and that he couldn't refuse it. He didn't want to. Not out of any sense of guilt, but out of a selfish desire to make Sherlock see just what the man he was dismissing was capable of.

"He was the one that put us together on the assignment." That particular sentence came more easily to him than many others that day. "Who made sure we were together," he classified.

"So I was your charity case?" Sherlock said, after a long, frosty pause.

John narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't you even dare pretend to be offended." He sat back in his seat with a frustrated huff. "God. I don't even know why I bothered coming."

"No need to get testy," Sherlock retorted. "It was a simple question."

"It's never just a simple question with you," John replied tartly. "It's a thousand questions in the guise of a simple question! What you really mean is: was I just faking it all along?" The words were suddenly coming almost too quickly, and he couldn't or wouldn't stop himself. "Christmas? Was that a lie? Was my telling you I love you a lie too? Was giving you my virginity just a ploy to keep the lie rolling along-"

He felt a jostle next to his arm, and glanced up slightly dazedly to where the waitress was clutching his lemonade in an open bottle sweating condensation. "Sorry," she said, seeming slightly embarrassed. John let her place it down in front of him and hurry away.

He wasn't embarrassed. He felt liberated from embarrassment. He felt like he was finally giving Sherlock a true piece of his mind. He had wanted to for weeks. To tell him how angry he was at him for keeping them apart, how he resented his promising him everything and then giving him nothing because suddenly the dangers were too pressing to ignore.

Sherlock's lips twitched, and John inwardly dared him to laugh. "I thought you agreed that a little time apart now was a good idea."

"I did," John agreed quickly. He knew he was being difficult and contrary, but it was difficult to verbalize his frustrations when he didn't even truly know what was causing him to feel so helpless and angry.

The waitress returned with the coffee and placed it down in front of Sherlock without looking up. Sherlock didn't touch it.

They sat in silence for a few moments. John let his irritation wash over him. He knew it was fuelled by what he had heard that morning. He didn't need the constant reminders of how stupid and ignorant his friends were, he didn't want to be reminded of how unwelcome he was in their circle.

Five minutes later, both of them had had enough of the awkward silence. Sherlock offered to pay for both drinks, something John wasn't about to fight him on, so he waited outside, beyond the dirty umbrellas and the remains of their only partly touched beverages on the table.

They began walking back towards the town, before either of them had even suggested where they should go. Sherlock seemed to be walking a little faster than usual, always a good sign that he was turning something over and over in his mind. He continued on at a doggedly rapid pace, until finally, when the chemist on the outer outskirts of the main street came into view, John grabbed a hold of his sleeve.

"Slow down, for fuck's sake!"

He all but shouted it at him. They stood in the middle of the empty street staring at each other, the sleeve of Sherlock's coat jammed in John's hand. Sherlock looked blank, and it was difficult to tell what, if any, effect John's words had had on him.

He loosened his grip on Sherlock's coat sleeve. His nails had become embedded in the fibres and it made a dull, thick cottony sound as he tore it away. Before he could pull himself completely away, Sherlock had grabbed tightly a hold of his wrist and yanked him roughly towards him.

John melted into the kiss even when he knew he should have been pulling away, should have been pushing Sherlock off of him. They were kissing in a public street, in broad daylight. The thought should have meant more to him.

It was one of the most heated kisses, however ungainly, they had shared for longer than John could remember. One of Sherlock's hands was pressed into the small of his back, holding him firmly, and not altogether gently, against him, the other was still hooked around his wrist, refusing to let go even when John clumsily lifted his arm to cup Sherlock's face with both his hands. Sherlock's skin was ice cold, and smooth as wind-levelled rock.

Sherlock's tongue was inside of his mouth before he could gather his thoughts into a coherent order. Sherlock's tongue was warm and familiar against his, but it was that wet, velvety sensation that suddenly awoke him to what they were doing.

He yanked his head away from Sherlock's, though he didn't release Sherlock's face from his grip. His hands seemed to have decided they liked their present position and weren't going to unhook themselves from Sherlock's chin and cheek. Sherlock blinked at him, his eyes hazy and aroused, his hair ruffled from their brief entanglement.

"Are you mental?" he breathed, even as his cock started to stiffen between his legs. His accusing words were at odds to everything his body was doing. "We could be seen."

"I want to undress you and fuck you slow and deep, in front of every one of these houses," Sherlock said, in a voice so frank it was almost comical.

John was almost exasperated by how typical it was for two adolescents to suddenly reconnect through their mutual lust and need for sexual release. But he knew that was selling them both short. Sherlock would not have begun to undress just anyone in the middle of a suburban street.

"Jesus Christ, you're serious," John gasped. Sherlock's fingers were tugging at the buttons on his cardigan. His jeans were uncomfortably tight, and Sherlock's hands touching and prying at his clothes was not helping.

"Not here," he almost pleaded, as though he was asking Sherlock not to argue with him or scratch himself in public.

Sherlock abruptly stopped. His vision was startlingly clear as he stared at him. "Ok. A motel."

"With what?" John said loudly after him, as he was taken firmly by the wrist and half led and half dragged towards the high street.

Sherlock just glanced at him over his shoulder. "Fine. Then we're left with the street."

He turned sharply and was suddenly leading John into a damp, dirty alleyway. The red bricks on the ground were crumbling and chipped away; moss was growing between them. At the end he could see two garages, shut and with cobwebs hanging liberally over them in a manner that suggested they had not been used for a very long time. On one side of them was a block of flats, the other was a small, untidy terrace house with a lattice fence.

They hurried down a few feet, until they were out of view to anyone in the houses on either side of the street or anyone in the high street, however not to anyone who happened to walk past.

John tore at Sherlock's clothes with renewed fervour, suddenly indifferent to their recklessness, to the fact they were about to make love in a filthy, only partly obscured alleyway, with no protection and no certainty whether the abrupt intimacy, which might be the last for some time, was the best idea for either of them.

Sherlock was panting, his breath hot and muggy against John's neck. He had already undone three of John's buttons, the rest came quickly after. John yanked Sherlock's coat open and then fumbled for his belt and the zipper on his jeans.

"Fucking tight jeans," he muttered, only partly joking as he struggled to pull them down Sherlock's slender thighs.

Sherlock had more luck with John's jeans and yanked them down with one clean pull. Before John had succeeded in getting Sherlock's further than a quarter of the way down his thighs, he was pushing him into the brick wall behind him.

With one hand he cupped John's face the way John had done his on the street. He pressed his other hand against the material of John's underwear, pulled taut by the straining of his rapidly hardening sex. John gasped and rolled into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock's face was close to his and burning with a fierce red flush. His eyes were burning too, bright and intensely lustful.

With surprising strength, Sherlock shoved him up onto his hips. His back was pressing uncomfortably into the brick wall, but he knew he wouldn't fall. The air was unpleasantly cold against his bare back and arse. "Hurry," he hissed, as Sherlock fumbled one-handedly with his own underwear.

A moment later he was pushing against John's entrance. John was pressed like a bit of meat between two bits of bread, his legs uncomfortably vertical against Sherlock's body and one of his hands struggling aimlessly for something to grip onto on the wall behind him.

The discomfort and cold was suddenly dissipated when Sherlock pushed inside of him. His hole was unprepared and stinging from the morning air, and for a few moments he could think of nothing but the discomfort of being fucked like this, with his legs in the air like some sort of tumbler.

"Fuck," he swore viscously. "Fuck!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock grunted into his ear.

"It's ok," John managed to gasp back, his ribs feeling constricted in this position.

Sherlock made a strange sound. John felt the warm air released with it rush against his collarbone. John realised dimly, amongst the confusion of intimacy and the discomfort of having his hole stretched every time Sherlock's length entered him, that it almost sounded like a sob.

That thought was quickly eclipsed as the first shot of real pleasure he had felt rippled through his stomach to the tip of his cock pressed against Sherlock's stomach. A strangled, pressured groan rose from the base of his throat and he gripped harder at Sherlock's shoulders.

He could feel Sherlock's fragmented breathing against him. He could feel it vibrating through his frame. He circled Sherlock's shoulders with his arms and held him tightly against him, though it caused him some discomfort against the damp, uneven wall.

Their first lovemaking for weeks was a brief flurry of grunting, arms grasping helplessly at each other, bodies violently meeting again and again, eyes seeking each other out almost vehemently across the soupy air of the dirty, little alleyway.

John forgot about the closeness of the brick wall behind him and threw his head back when his climax came, suddenly and almost without his realising its approach. The ache of the back of his head was swallowed whole, as he unthinkingly cried out Sherlock's name. He spent himself all over Sherlock's stomach and shirt.

Seconds later, Sherlock followed like he was tumbling off a cliff after him. He held John painfully hard against him and thrust into him. He pressed his face into John's neck, and gasped like he hadn't had a mouthful of air for the entire time they'd been pressed against each other, entwined like a many-limbed vine against the unwashed brick wall.

Minutes later, Sherlock slowly and carefully let John slide to his feet. He could barely stand and squatted down where he was, under the pretence of yanking up his underwear, but in actuality to catch his breath and gather the strength in his knees to straighten up.

When he did, Sherlock was slowly dressing himself. He seemed at ease again. His breathing was slow and regular. He zipped himself back into his stupidly tight jeans, he tucked his shirt back into the band and buttoned his coat.

John followed suit, though with less precision. He clumsily zipped and buttoned himself up, finding it hard not to stare at Sherlock when he was flushed with a post-orgasm glow. His hair was in an even greater state now, tangled and tumbling into his forehead and eyes.

They walked to the end of the alleyway, listening carefully. John was listening for the sounds of voices of people who may have overheard them. He was sure he could recognise them by their sharp, scandalised resonance, but the air was silent. The only sounds were the cars on the nearby main road and a blackbird cawing lazily overheard.

Just as they were turning the corner, Sherlock suddenly stopped and turned to him.

"John, stop."

John had already stopped. Sherlock's hand was again on his arm; his face was strained.

"I have to tell you something."

John's stomach swooped in alarm. "Yeah?"

Sherlock hesitated, seeming almost frozen in the act of speaking. His lips were slightly parted; his brow was furrowed. "I... I don't think you should give Hurst too much thought. I know it's hard, but he's gone and their stupidity can't hurt him now."

John was almost certain that that hadn't been what Sherlock had wanted to say, but he humoured him. His irritation had been melted away during their messy tryst in the alleyway, and he was too exhausted to argue. "Ok," he said gently. "I'll forget it."

They walked slowly back to the school, taking as long as possible in the brightening morning sunshine. Keeping close together and with their coat sleeves as cover they could thread their fingers through each other's and pass by people completely unnoticed.

At the gates of the school, they risked a very brief and chaste kiss before walking on ahead. John watched him go, and waited for him to disappear so he could follow at a safe distance behind.

\--

Sherlock felt sick as he walked through the doors of the administration office. The feeling had been hanging over his stomach all day. Since his meeting with John.

His insides contracted at the memory of that morning. John had seemed worse. The pressure was beginning to form cracks in the facade he had kept so effectively in place for months, perhaps years. Sherlock wanted to believe that he had refrained from telling John about Jim to save him from a further blow, and to a degree it was true. John was already buckling under the weight of their prolonged separation. But he would have been lying to himself if he denied that fear and cowardice had been most prominent in his decision to stay silent.

As a result, the guilt was left to fester in the recesses of Sherlock's mind. The unfaltering sense of self-loathing. And the fear.

He reached the receptionist's desk and found it empty. The little silver bell was in its usual place, but he didn't ring it. He didn't know whether it would be necessary to disturb the receptionist. He was hoping he'd be able to come and go without drawing too much attention to himself.

Behind him he heard the admin's twin doors of handsome, polished wood open with a soft screech across the floorboards. He slowly turned, uncertain of what he'd see.

He was almost surprised at the sight of Mr. Watson, in a pale grey suit and green tie. He had combed his yellow hair to one side and was wearing a pair of black sunglasses, despite the rain that had been falling all afternoon. It was hard to tell which direction he was looking at, and Sherlock lifted a hand to wave briefly at him in case his lone stance by the receptionist's desk wasn't already quite apparent.

Mr. Watson looked at him, or Sherlock assumed so by the tilt of his sunglasses. He took a few steps towards him and then stopped, removing them and folding them into his pocket. He eyes were pink and sunken underneath.

"Sherlock," he said in a neutral tone. He glanced around him, as though in search of someone concealed behind him.

"Mr. Watson," Sherlock said, nodding his head in greeting. "My brother was called away on business. But I'd be glad to speak to you."

Mr. Watson raised a pale eyebrow at him, clearly displeased at the change of plans. He had been expecting to speak to Mycroft Holmes, one of the most proficient young businessmen in the country, but Sherlock had had to use something to lure the banker away from his home in Southampton. Sherlock was almost disgusted at himself for using his brother as leverage, but it had been necessary. Mr. Watson would never have come if he had simply asked him.

"We can use one of the conference rooms," he said, before John's father could argue.

He walked towards the nearest door, and was relieved to hear Mr. Watson's footsteps behind him.

The room was large and well-lit by two long, rectangular windows. The walls were covered in dark green wallpaper; the carpet was cream and very clean. In the centre was a long oval table with three chairs either side, and one at either end. There was an empty plastic jug in the centre turned upside down, with three glasses around it.

Sherlock didn't take a seat, and neither did Mr. Watson. He neglected to close the door on his way in, so Sherlock closed it and stood with his back to it.

"What is this about?" Mr. Watson said, his brow furrowing as he clearly began to realise that he may have made the long journey from Southampton to Redverse under false pretences.

"John," Sherlock replied simply.

Mr. Watson's eyes immediately narrowed. Even in their current, tired state they were so like John's. Oval-shaped, cradled by pale eyelashes, and almost helplessly expressive of what lay beneath. "You lied to me."

He moved to jostle Sherlock out of the way of the door, but Sherlock didn't move. "If you care at all about your son, you'll stay."

"How dare you," Mr. Watson said. He had stopped struggling to get past him and was standing less than three inches away, eyes narrowed into venomous slits. "You've known my son for mere months, and you deem yourself worthy of appraising my love for him? How dare you."

Sherlock's heart had begun to pound in his chest. The desire to just outpour everything he had thought or felt for the past few weeks towards John's father was almost overwhelming. "How can you say that when you know how much he suffers just to please you?" he snapped, before he could stop himself.

Mr. Watson furiously opened his mouth and then slowly closed it again, moving back a step and lifting his head to look almost imperiously at him. It was an impressive attempt, given his height. "I'm not going to talk to you about this. Move. I'm leaving."

Sherlock moved silently to one side and slid a hand into his pocket. "I'm willing to pay."

Mr. Watson stopped, one hand clasping the doorknob and his eyes fixed irritably on Sherlock. "For what?"

"For you to leave John alone," Sherlock replied quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the space above his heart moving violently against his shirt. "I have 3000 pounds. Would that be enough?"

Mr. Watson's eyes widened. For a moment he looked too stunned to react. His flaxen eyebrows had almost disappeared into his hairline. Sherlock slid a hand into his pocket where the bundles of cash were still secured by the red elastic bands Mycroft had attached to them.

"He could live with me. My parents wouldn't mind. I could make sure that he got everything he needed. You needn't think of a thing."

He failed to read the warning signs, and it wasn't until Mr. Watson's features rapidly changed that he realised what was about to happen.

The punch hit him almost squarely in his left eye. The sound of it hitting his skin was a dull slap like a sack of wet cement hitting concrete. The pain seemed to come belatedly after, as though his body had forgotten it must accompany a sharp, strong blow to the flesh.

Sherlock staggered a few steps back, a hand automatically clutching at where the blow had landed. Mr. Watson also staggered backwards, almost into the door. He was panting and his face was fiercely red. He didn't seem angry so much as out of breath.

"I'm sorry," he panted, pushing a hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry."

He turned away, the hand still against his forehead, and his shoulders heaving. Sherlock stayed where he was. The shock was pumping through his veins thickly. He should have assumed that this was what would happen. He'd seen him hit his own son, but the thought had seemed too incredulous to him.

Mr. Watson was staring past him; the colour had suddenly drained from his face and he was extremely white. The fist he'd hit him with was curled into his other hand.

"Mr. Watson," Sherlock said, without knowing completely what he was going to say. "Mr. Watson, I-"

He looked at him, his eyes blank and almost uncomprehending. "I have to go."

He said it as though they had met on the politest, most casual of terms. Sherlock didn't try and stop him. He had known it would be difficult to convince Mr. Watson to cast off his only son, but he had expected that the introduction of money would warm him to the idea.

The violent refusal had left him confused and uncertain. He didn't know whether to expect a call from Mr. Watson days later, and that this initial fury was merely the conceding of his failure as a father.

When he left the conference room, Mr. Watson had disappeared. The desk was still empty and the doors were closed on both sides of the hall. No one had overheard their conversation; no one knew of what Sherlock had intended except Mycroft. The money, of course, would have to go back to him. As soon as it was clear what Mr. Watson's intentions were.

He was lost in these thoughts when he became abruptly aware of his phone ringing doggedly in the pocket of his school trousers. He quickly yanked it out to silence it. He immediately thought it to be Mycroft, since no one else, now that John's phone had disappeared, was likely to contact him.

He stopped short at seeing the words "Private Number" on the screen. It could be Mycroft calling from a phone away from their Kensington home, but it seemed unlikely. In his mind he had almost no doubt that it had something to do with Jim Moriarty.

He had a dithering moment of indecision. Since their last encounter, over a week before, Sherlock had been avoiding the other boy with all of his might. Though it seemed his efforts weren't completely necessary. Jim, seemingly feeling he had delivered a lasting blow to Sherlock, was moving through the school with malignant calm.

His pleasure and delight were obvious and when his eyes settled on Sherlock it was clear what he was thinking of. Sherlock's blunder. His idiotic hesitation. He could never forget it. That hesitation had given Jim all the ammunition he had needed. If he had just pushed Jim away the moment he had realised his intent, he wouldn't have unconsciously given up all of the evidence of his apparent infidelity in one, clumsy moment of weakness.

But no measure of reasoning could deliver him from the pure and simple truth: he had wanted Jim Moriarty. He had. He had wanted to kiss him, and he had. Whatever had driven his attraction to him, whatever sick, confused fascination had been brewing inside of him had risen to its climax when Jim had kissed him. Not an incidental brush of his lips against Sherlock's, but a deep, forceful kiss.

He would be lying if he denied how that feverish, almost violent kiss had affected him. But he would also be lying if he claimed that his feelings towards Jim were the same as they had been weeks before. He now knew that he had always had the ability and the power to walk away from Jim's game. He could have denied him the satisfaction of engaging him in his ridiculous roulette, but he had childishly deemed himself too clever to be outwitted. But he had been, and this was the cost of losing. Everything. He could lose everything.

He pressed his thumb firmly down on 'accept' and pressed it to his ear, ready to tell whoever it was to go to hell if they gave him any reason to suspect they were doing Moriarty's dirty work. "Hello?" he said sharply, hoping to frighten whoever it was into hanging up.

There was a moment's silence and then a familiar voice sounded. "Sorry, is this a bad time?"

It took Sherlock a few moments to place where he had heard the voice before. It was strange having the voice disembodied from its speaker. It was even stranger to think of why they would be contacting him of all people.

"No, it's alright," he said quietly, stopping where he was outside the admin, near the row of drinking taps. "How are you?"

There was another brief silence, and then the voice replied, somewhat tersely, "Quite well, thank you. I hope you're in a private place. I have something I want to discuss with you."

_End of Chapter Twenty-Six_


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock slowly traced a finger around the outline of the bruise. Even that gentle touch stung. It looked viciously purple against his skin, fading from a pale violet at the edges to a shrivelled blue in the centre.

The pain made it virtually impossible to open his eye beyond a split. He knew that there wasn't a hope of it looking anything close to normal by Monday. There was no way his classmates were going to miss this. It was like having a signpost on his forehead, professing just how much of an idiot he had been.

He was no stranger to physical pain; his years at Redverse had ensured that. But it was certainly more painful being hit by a strong, full-grown man than the scrawny adolescents at Redverse. Their fighting attempts seemed feeble by comparison.

Sherlock probably should have anticipated it. John's father had a foul temper on him. But admittedly he had very much expected a much more... positive reaction. He had even expected, well, _relief_. The man clearly felt John was a burden on him. Sherlock was offering to ease that burden. The fury in Mr. Watson's reaction deviated from what Sherlock had felt he had read so blaringly in his character.

He had spent the next day in full anticipation of Watson's call, expecting very much that it would come before dinner. But no call came, and the silence was forebodingly final.

Three days later he was forced to come to the conclusion that Mr. Watson was not going to call. His plan had been a resounding failure. At best, Mr. Watson would need much longer than expected to make up his mind. At worst, his judgment of Mr. Watson's nature had been sorely flawed, and he had mortally offended the man who had terrific sway over John. He had been, and he was getting sick and tired of repeating the word so frequently, reckless.

But maybe he was being too easy on himself. Maybe the word he was looking for was "stupid".

He dropped his hand back down beside him and scowled at himself in the mirror. The bruise stood out like a beacon among otherwise pallid, smooth features. What would John say? What excuse could he make? He baulked at the thought of yet another lie. The truth was proving to have a habit of coming out sooner or later.

With an impatient tut, he turned his back on his reflection and stalked across to the bed. He furrowed his brow at the pile of twisted, unmade sheets. The duvet was pooled untidily at the base where he had kicked it sometime the night before, sometime amongst the uncomfortable hours of tossing and turning in the darkness.

He had been sleeping increasingly badly of late. And it had only worsened since his (very memorable) meeting with John. Outside that stupid coffee shop. He didn't even know why he had thought it necessary to dredge up the past by dragging them both there. The temptation had simply been too great, he supposed. Perhaps he was more sentimental than he thought.

He wondered if John remembered the first time they'd been there as clearly as he did. Perhaps not. John probably hadn't studied that day detail by detail like Sherlock had in the following days and weeks. For a lovesick teenager, the glory of having John to himself for that one, perfect day had been better than any of his pornographic fantasies.

And though the memory of the cafe had since been supplanted by more recent, more concrete moments between them, he had found himself looking back on that day increasingly often of late.

It couldn't have been healthy to constantly entertain memories like he had been. It wasn't as though he missed pining away like a- Well. A lovesick teenager. But it was hard not to miss the days when John had actually smiled.

He hadn't meant to find himself tangled up with John in that alleyway; it hadn't been part of the plan, but certain parts of his psyche had seemingly decided to awaken at the moment John had touched his arm in the street. At that moment, good sense had been, as such, well and truly fucked.

He plunged a hand into the mound of bed sheets and felt around for his phone. He'd taken to sleeping with it close to his person, and had awoken more than once with a phone-shaped lump underneath him.

He found it buried underneath his pillow and wrenched it out. On lighting up the screen, he found that he had "1 Missed Call". He knew, even without looking, that it would be from his brother. Sherlock had been avoiding the inevitable conversation he knew they must have. He couldn't just borrow 3000 pounds from his brother and expect no questions. And Mycroft probably had a right to know... Though it pained him to admit it.

He dialled the number with one hand, absentmindedly feeling inside his jeans pocket with the other. The slip of card was still there. He didn't know when or if he would ever use it. It seemed to him that Mycroft had only mean it to be used in the most dire of circumstances, and as yet Sherlock didn't believe anything had happened that warranted the use of his brother's jealously guarded private number.

"Hello?" Mycroft sounded terse.

"It's me."

There was a pause; distantly Sherlock heard a low squeak as Mycroft sat back in his leather office chair. "Nice of you to respond to my calls for a change, Sherlock." His tone was distinctly flat.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock remarked.

"There is nothing  _wrong_  with me," Mycroft replied coolly. "I'm buried up to my eyes in work. What do you want?"

"I'm giving you back the money," Sherlock said, feeling inexplicably defensive about his brother's subdued tone. "If that's what you're so sour about."

"Indeed?" Mycroft said dryly. "I thought it was "absolutely necessary" that you have it."

"I thought so too," Sherlock mumbled. He removed his hand from his pocket and rubbed his hair. It was stiff with sweat and grease. He really should have washed it two days ago, but bathing became increasingly a chore when he had nobody to stay clean for.

"Do you really expect me to come back up there and fetch it again?" Mycroft went on testily. "Or do you just need something else this time? A car? A house? Perhaps your own stud and stables?"

Sherlock prickled. "Shut up. Don't take your bad mood out on me."

"I'm not in a bad mood," Mycroft responded curtly. "But I am, I would say understandably, reluctant to abandon my entire workload to go traipsing up there in the name of one of your whims."

"You can do whatever you want, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "The money can sit on my desk until the next millennium for all I care. Assuming it lasts that long without being stolen."

Mycroft made a dismissive sound between his teeth. "You are such a drama queen, Sherlock."

"And you're a pompous tw-"

"Dare I ask what you intended to do with it?" Mycroft interjected archly.

Sherlock had been waiting for that. "The money?" he said. He was only too confident of what Mycroft's reaction would be when he told him what he had done.

"No, the marijuana plants you have growing in your wardrobe," Mycroft said, with an almost audible roll of his eyes. "Of course the money."

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't know how to word his next sentence so it sounded least idiotic- and least incriminating. He could do without Mycroft's self-righteous comments.

"Why so silent?" Mycroft quipped. "Knowing you, it was for some harebrained scheme to flee the country."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock retorted, his brother's words cutting a little too close to the truth.

"Then what?" Mycroft said impatiently. "I don't intend to play guessing games with you, Sherlock. Tell me, or let me get back to my work."

Sherlock came abruptly to a decision. "I'll tell you what I intended, if you tell me why and how you know Jim Moriarty," he said, inelegantly sidestepping the question. Nevertheless his curiosity was not feigned.

"We're not bargaining here," Mycroft said sharply, the edge Sherlock had noted the last time they had spoken of Jim returning to his voice. "I've told you everything you need to know about Jim Moriarty."

"All you've done is warn me to stay away from him," Sherlock said. He leant back against the dorm wall, stretching his legs across the bed.

Just vaguely he could hear the low rumble of voices from the next room. He wondered what they were talking about. Probably something like football or a  _Playboy_  centrefold. Something bland and uncomplicated. It was the first time Sherlock had almost envied them their ignorance and stupidity.

"I don't have time for this, Sherlock," Mycroft said irritably, though Sherlock thought his irritation was a thin veil for his reluctance to enter any conversation concerning Jim Moriarty.

"I have a right to know," Sherlock retorted. "If he's dangerous, I want to know why."

Mycroft didn't reply. Sherlock heard him exhale softly.

He waited, twisting the cold sheets around and around in his hand. He heard another low squeal, as though Mycroft had sat forward at his desk.

After a few prolonged minutes, Mycroft finally spoke. "He was an intern in the Department of Immigration. We sometimes have dealings with them, illegal aliens and all of that."

Sherlock had never completely understood Mycroft's position in the British Government, but he preferred not to know. He didn't want to unintentionally inflate his brother's ego to a further degree than it already was by accidentally showing any interest in his professional life.

"He... Well." Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock didn't think he had ever heard him sound less controlled than he did now. "He was more competent than the rest of them put together for one."

"The rest of the interns?" Sherlock asked.

"The rest of the department," Mycroft replied tartly, with a short, hollow laugh.

Sherlock could only too vividly imagine Jim swaggering around an office, twisting every arrogant, overconfident businessman around his little finger, flirting and bullying his way to complete control over them. The students of Redverse really hadn't stood a chance.

"He was intelligent," Mycroft continued after a pause. "Far too intelligent for the Department of Immigration," he added offhandedly.

There was silence. Sherlock waited, wondering what obscene crime Jim had committed in the Department of Immigration. He envisioned something bloody, something involving desperate people trying to flee their war-torn countries of origin. Something cruel.

"Well, our paths crossed once or twice," Mycroft went on abruptly. "That was about the long and short of the matter."

Sherlock frowned. "That's it?" he said dubiously.

"What did you expect?" Mycroft said, sounding ruffled.

"So you took intelligent and competent to mean he was also a sadistic maniac?" Sherlock said irritably. He was in reality disappointed that his brother didn't have more to tell about Jim. Then maybe Sherlock could begin to understand him- and his weaknesses.

Mycroft sighed. "In the short time I knew him, he demonstrated himself to be ruthless, thoughtless and to have little compassion, if any, for other people." There was a tinge of bitterness to his tone that Sherlock was surprised to detect in his brother's usually mild, unaffected voice.

"I can assure you that that is putting it mildly," he said drily.

"Why?" Mycroft said, suddenly alert. "What has he done?"

Sherlock considered how much was safe to tell him. He would have to be careful to skirt around the facts that implicated himself. "He's been... ah, causing trouble somewhat," he said lamely.

"What kind of trouble?" Mycroft said, the sharpness remaining.

"Oh, you know," Sherlock said impatiently. "The kind of trouble that spoilt, arrogant private school boys make."

He didn't mention that that trouble included driving the entire school into virtual servitude, and singlehandedly destroying his and John's relationship.

"Very well, if you insist on being vague," Mycroft said witheringly. "I can't stay much longer, Sherlock. I wasn't lying about being up to my very eyeballs in paperwork." He paused. "But I am still very much interested to know just what failed venture you attempted to fritter away my hard-earned money on.  _That_  I will spare an extra minute or two to hear."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, kneading his forehead with his knuckles. "It doesn't matter. It didn't work."

"No, I rather think it  _does_  matter," Mycroft said, with a hum. "It was my money, after all and I would quite like to know what you tried to do with it."

Sherlock exhaled under his breath. There was really no easy way of saying what he had to say to his brother. "I may have..." he began falteringly, "underestimated Mr. Watson's fortitude when it comes to his son." He hesitated. "I've made an error in judgement," he ended flaccidly.

He knew he was being as vague as a person could be while still broaching the subject, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He didn't want to have to verbalize the scene that had taken place. He hoped very much that Mycroft would take mercy on him and not demand specificity.

There was a silence that turned his stomach. He could almost feel the cogs in his brother's head turning as he slowly realised what Sherlock's words meant.

"Oh, Sherlock," he finally said in a muffled voice. Sherlock realised that he had covered his face with his hand. He felt his cheeks flush. He was about to be chided like a child. "Tell me you didn't try and bribe Mr. Watson."

"I didn't think he'd react the way he did," Sherlock said defensively.

"Your inability to understand normal human feeling, normal human  _reactions_  is one of the many reasons I knew that this ill-advised relationship with John Watson would not work," Mycroft said in a hard voice. It was far from the reproachful tone Sherlock had expected. Somehow it was much worse.

"Don't start all of that rubbish again," he snapped. He crawled forward on the bed, too agitated to stay still. The phone was pressed hard against his ear, he could feel it cutting into his earlobe, but he was barely aware of the pain.

"This is precisely why you should have left it alone," Mycroft said, a coldness creeping into his voice that Sherlock hadn't heard for a very long time. "All of this time I thought-"

He broke off abruptly.

"Thought what?" Sherlock demanded hotly.

"All of this time I was so  _convinced_  that he would hurt you," Mycroft said, the anger beneath his restrained words seething and poisonous. "I didn't think that a common teenage boy would understand how you functioned, how you had suffered in the past-"

"What you did was completely out of order," Sherlock broke in angrily. "What did you think you were going to achieve? Did you think you were on some crusade to prove that John is just as cold-hearted and unfeeling as you are?" He spat the last words with more venom than he had intended, but the fury he felt was overtaking him.

"No, I don't think I've proven anything of the sort," Mycroft replied coldly, after a frosty pause. "John is not the one who I think has ultimately proven himself to be cold-hearted or unfeeling."

He hung up, and the line went dead.

Sherlock didn't move. He stared unfocusedly ahead, listening to the persistent  _beep, beep, beep, beep_  in his ear. Finally, he lowered it and dropped it beside him on the covers.

\--

As seemed the norm these days, John found himself alone in the change rooms that night. The team seemed to evaporate within seconds after training, leaving him to shuffle back up to the school alone, or sometimes with Ben. Oftentimes he convinced Ben to leave him and go with the team. He didn't want to force Ben to ostracise himself just for his sake, though it was admittedly a self-gratifyingly nice feeling to know he had at least one remaining ally on the team.

He got dressed slowly, not having any reason to rush, or any desire to. He spent his nights either confined to his dormitory room, or sitting in uncomfortable silence in the common room, knowing that he was not wanted or welcome. He and Sherlock were seemingly "on" again, if they had ever been "off", but they still couldn't risk meeting in the school. Sherlock seemed adamant about that. He was particularly adamant that they never use the dark room again. John was curious as to why, but he hadn't gotten a straight answer out of Sherlock about that.

He shimmied out of his damp uniform and dropped it onto the muddy tiles. He gave a shiver against the brisk evening air. It was becoming more bearable, as the cold weather eased, but it was still nice to get into the shower. Even if said shower smelt of wet dog and urine.

The hot water on his cold skin sent goosebumps over all of his limbs, and pricked up all the hairs along his spine and neck. He gave an appreciative shudder under the steamy water and let it rush through his dirty hair and over the aching muscles of his body.

He washed himself as well as he could with just hot water (no one in their right mind would touch the dirt-caked bar of soap provided) and reluctantly stepped back out into the cold. He hastily dressed, stuffing his uniform into the bottom of his kitbag. It was nice to be clean and dry. He would choose this over an early dinner any day.

When he walked outside, the sun was starting to bob down below the horizon. The lights in the school were starting to flicker on in random places, in dorm rooms and offices and the various common rooms.

The gravel of the courtyard crunched underfoot, breaking the drowsy twilight silence. It wasn't until John was almost halfway across that he saw a figure lurking by the entrance doors. He slowed his pace, straining his eyes to see who it was. His mind had immediately leapt to two possibilities: one very much welcome, and the other very much not.

He slowed down when he was almost level with them, realisation trickling through him. "Dad?" he said confusedly.

His father was not dressed in his usual suit, but a pair of jeans and a loose black shirt. His hair didn't look like it had been combed that day, and he was wearing the reading glasses he usually protested vociferously against needing.

"John," he said. His tone wasn't warm or welcoming. If John had expected forgiveness, or an apology then he would have been disappointed, but John knew his father too well to expect either. "Hester told me you'd be done here."

He said "Hester" like he was naming a virtual acquaintance and not the boy who had publicly usurped his son. "Yeah," John said, staring at him. "Is there something wrong? Mum-"

"No, everything's fine," his father cut in. "I came to speak to you."

John stared. "You drove all this way just to speak?"

His father shrugged. "I had some things to do in the neighbourhood anyway. Let's sit down." He nodded to a bench along the wall. It was covered in dead leaves and dried bird mess, but John didn't argue.

He perched on the edge of the bench, trying not to stare at his father too much. If so many unexpected things had not already happened to him of late, he would have found his father's unexpected appearance much more surprising, but, things being as they were, he just found it strange. He couldn't think of anything his father could have to say to him; he had already made his feelings about the team very well-known as far as John was concerned.

For a few moments there was silence, his father stared ahead, his hands clasped and his elbows rested on his knees. John waited, not feeling inclined to begin the conversation, given what had happened when they had last met. His jaw gave a twinge.

"So how are things going?" said his father in a hollow voice at length.

"Fine," John replied shortly. "It's all fine." He felt he had every right to tell that very large lie.

"And football?" His father looked at him.

"Marty is a good captain," John said, fighting to keep the hard edge from his voice. "The team's won their last two games under him."

His father nodded and fell silent again. John noted that he was clasping and unclasping his hands almost frenetically.

"Your principal called me to have chat," he said, after a long pause. John watched him and said nothing. "He said that a few weeks ago he spoke to you."

It took John a minute to realise what he meant. Yes, Harvey had spoken to him. Shortly before he had been shafted by Marty. He had threatened him. He had as good as told him that he knew about his relationship with Sherlock. With the help of Jim, Marty and Billy, Harvey had successfully taken John down.

"Yeah, he did."

His father licked his lips, his eyebrows heavily knitted together. John had a feeling he knew where this was going. His heart began to beat a little harder in his chest.

"You..." His father's mouth twisted slightly. "And Sherlock Holmes?"

John remained silent, though his mind was racing faster than he could process the thoughts. It was happening, he thought. It was finally happening. He had always thought that when this moment came he would have been scared shitless, but his overriding feeling was fury. Fury at Harvey for playing such a low down trick. He might have only had unconfirmed suspicions about John and Sherlock, but they were apparently more than enough to use as a weapon.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said, in an oddly blank voice that barely sounded like his own.

"He said he had already warned you about it," his father said, still staring ahead. His mouth was contorting with barely disguised anger. "He told me that he told you weeks ago to stop this... this  _thing_  with Holmes, but that you deliberately disobeyed him."

John's immediate reaction was to demand just how Harvey knew so much about his and Sherlock's movements, but he already knew the answer to that. Besides, he didn't think those sorts of details were particularly important at that moment. So instead, he searched haplessly for the words to respond. "I... We... I meant to tell-"

"Finally," his father said, as though he hadn't spoken. " _Finally_ , after waiting weeks for you to sort it out yourself, he had to come to me. He thought that maybe I could get through to you, maybe I could... make you _get_  just how close you are to losing your place on that team."

He still didn't look at him, still didn't give way to that rage that John knew was simmering furiously beneath the surface. He had expected to be hit, he had expected to be screamed at when this moment came, but instead his father was cold as ice, and couldn't even look at him.

"Dad," he said, feeling helpless. "I was going to tell you-"

"I would prefer if you had died," his father said quietly.

John stopped, his insides feeling like they were turning slowly to liquid. He knew this would come. He knew it. He had expected this. It didn't hurt. What you expected, what you knew was inevitable, couldn't hurt you.

Even as he watched his father slowly straighten up from the filthy bench and brush the shrivelled foliage off the seat of his jeans he felt like his body was about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

"Your mother is handling it better than I thought," his father said, staring across the darkening courtyard, his hands in his pockets. "I know it broke her heart."

John felt a flare of anger break through the throbbing ache in his gut. "Don't pretend like you give a damn about mum." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

His father turned sharply towards him, finally looking at him. Familiar blue eyes landed with the weight of lead on his. "Don't you-" The harsh words broke off. John glanced down at his father's clenched fists.

"Why don't you just do it?" he said, looking back up into his father's eyes. "I know you want to."

His father's mouth gave another convulsion, and he turned abruptly away again. "And this Sherlock Holmes, he's some kind of a fucking saint, is he?"

"I'm not talking about Sherlock," John said coldly.

"Then you can listen," his father spat at him over his shoulder.

John felt breathless, like he had just run a mile in the bitter cold. He took a breath of air, trying to feed his brain the oxygen it needed to face this.

"I should have known when I saw that overeducated brat that he was a sod," his father breathed. He took a cigarette from the pack in his jeans pocket and jammed one between his lips.

"Don't be so ignorant," John snapped. He was still sitting; his hands had curled like claws around the edge of the seat underneath him.

His father didn't seem to hear him. "I should have known he was a thieving bastard as well." A stream of bluish smoke ran out from his father's nostrils.

John didn't reply. He watched his father's shoulders heave up and down with the weight of his disgust, his helplessness.

"Maybe if you knew what that piece of filth tried to do, you wouldn't be so ungrateful." His father was almost talking to himself now, his voice was barely more than a hollow mumble.

John stood up. He hadn't thought he would ever be able to stand again, but somehow he found himself on his feet, three inches behind his father's turned back. The words that followed came into his mouth without effort. He couldn't stop them, he didn't want to. "Look. I know what your dream was. I know you wanted me to be that boy who got scouted for a professional team, who played for Southampton and had the wife, the kids, the white picket fence. I know that would have made you happy." He stopped, he waited for his father to speak, but he didn't. He exhaled softly. "But at some point in your life you have to start thinking about what makes me happy, dad."

His voice wavered on the last word, but he bit back the temptation to crumble. He wouldn't give anyone that satisfaction. Not even now when his heart felt like it might shatter from the agony of his disappointment.

His father was silent. The cigarette hung limply from his right hand, showering ash onto the gravel.

"Whatever you think you know about Sherlock is wrong," John said in a hard voice.

He turned on his heel and strode back towards the school. The ache in his throat was threatening to give way.

In the hall, he faced the nearest wall, pressing a hand to his mouth with a dry sob. "God. God damn it. God fuck it."

He slowly lowered himself to his knees, resting his forehead against the wall. "Help me. Help me please," he sobbed.

\--

Sherlock checked his watch for the tenth time in ten minutes. He let his arm slump back down next to him on the coffee table. His date was late. Very late. He had never known him to be particularly punctual in the past, but he didn't know whether to start being concerned.

He drew a circle with the condensation seeping from the bottom of his untouched glass of lemonade. He stared aimlessly at the opposite wall. It was decorated with black and white photos of various scenes in cafes. The frames were very dusty and bad need of cleaning.

In fact, most of the cramped and slightly humid single roomed cafe needed cleaning. It was little more than a hole-in-the-wall, fashionably unkempt and manned by only a couple of equally unkempt proprietors. Sherlock could see why it had been chosen.

A shrill tinkling behind him announced the arrival of a customer. He didn't turn; he could see the newcomer reflected almost perfectly in the reflection of a monochrome shot of an espresso machine.

"Sherlock."

He looked up. The lank, slightly greasy hair was shorter but otherwise the same, and the ugly, wiry glasses had been replaced with marginally more tasteful thick-framed black ones. "Hi," Sherlock said, awkwardly accepting the handshake offered to him.

Hurst sat down, beckoning the waitress over to him with a crook of his finger. Sherlock waited, and tried not to stare too much. It was difficult not to take note of all the miniscule differences that had happened to his English teacher since his departure.

"So," he said, when he had ordered his soy latte. "Thanks for coming. I know it must have been a surprise to hear from me."

Sherlock shrugged. "It takes a lot to surprise me."

Seconds later, the waitress nudged the latte onto the edge of the table. Hurst jerked his head in thanks. Sherlock thought the milky concoction looked truly revolting.

"I suppose the reason for my departure isn't much of a secret," Hurst said, after taking a brief sip. He seemed to realise that Sherlock wasn't the kind of person who would humour him if he stalled unnecessarily with small talk.

"That depends whether the rumours that have been hurtling around the school like an aggressive pandemic are true or not," Sherlock said curtly.

Hurst gave a cynical snort. "Ah, high schoolers. They never disappoint."

Sherlock eyed him wryly. "Are they true?"

Hurst gave him a remarkably serene nod. "I'm afraid they are. Well, some of them anyway. I know how Chinese whispers can go awry."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said uncomfortably, not sure whether it was the right thing to say to someone in Hurst's condition.

Hurst waved the spoon of his latte dismissively. "Despite the fact that it's this month's hot topic, my illness hasn't been a hot topic in  _my_  life for eight years." He gave Sherlock a wry look over the rim of his glass. "Things have a way of... re-emerging."

"How do you..." Sherlock faltered. He was curious. He also felt like an annoying child asking too many questions.

Hurst gave a small smile. "It's ok. Very little offends me, I assure you. I handle it with drugs. That's how everyone handles it." Something in his air suggested that he was not open-minded about those who thought otherwise. "Most people opt for something called azidothymidine. Or AZT, to those in the know. That's what I'm on."

Sherlock nodded. He'd never heard of it.

There was a slightly awkward silence. Sherlock took an obligatory sip of his lukewarm lemonade. Hurst absentmindedly stirred his latte.

"How did they all find out?" Sherlock said finally.

"Well, that brings us to the real reason I asked you here," Hurst replied. He laid down his spoon on the table. Something seemed to tense in his demeanour. "I can only imagine how this is going to sound. I don't usually go for cloak-and-dagger conspiracy theories, but it's taken me a few weeks to decide that telling you this was the right thing to do."

Sherlock nodded. He was sure he knew what was coming.

"Might as well get to the pointy end of it," Hurst said, with a humourless laugh. He stared into his half-empty glass. "Shortly after he arrived, Jim Moriarty started what I can only describe as blackmailing me."

He seemed to think that that would cause Sherlock to exclaim in disbelief. Sherlock simply looked at him. He wondered whether he should tell him that he had already witnessed it first-hand. He almost simultaneously decided against it.

"I suppose you're already quite aware of what his leverage over me was," Hurst said drily.

"Going by the state of things, I'm assuming that whatever he wanted you didn't give him," Sherlock replied.

Hurst cleared his throat almost guiltily. "I don't want to lie to you," he said. "I gave him plenty. But not enough apparently."

"What did he want?" Sherlock asked. He usually hated these sorts of mind games, but he needed to know whether his ex-teacher was worth his trust.

Hurst sighed, and drained the rest of his milky coffee in one long long gulp. "Information," he said, placing the cup back down heavily on the table. "Information about you."

"Like what?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. He thought he might as well keep playing ignorant, now that his moment to admit what he had seen had seemingly passed.

Hurst shook his head bemusedly. "Everything I knew. Which wasn't much I have to say. I should have told him to go to hell, but... Well, I don't really have an excuse." He sighed tiredly. "But I guess I got what I deserved in the end."

Silence fell on them again. Sherlock savoured Hurst's words. He hadn't been told anything he hadn't already known, if anything Hurst had only further confirmed how dangerously ruthless Jim was. But Sherlock had found an unlikely ally.

"He started to ask me things I didn't know," Hurst went on suddenly. "He seemed to have it in his head that you had someone protecting you." He looked at Sherlock and Sherlock thought he detected a very dim glint behind the glasses.

"You know about John and I," he said bluntly.

Hurst smirked. "I might be getting there, but I'm not so old that I miss the completely obvious just yet." He snorted. "And unlike your classmates, I do have the advantage of experience."

There was a pause.

"Thanks," Sherlock said, not looking at him.

"For what?"

"For being a decent human being."

\--

John scored a goal that evening, but his congratulations were decidedly lacklustre. He was past caring. The last thing he wanted were the slaps on the back, the nudges in the ribs, the ridiculous compliments. He just wanted to get through the game without throwing up.

Afterwards he walked up to the change rooms alone, leaving his teammates to the mercy of their gushing parents. He didn't scan the crowd for a mop of black hair. He knew there was little chance of him being there, but he would have given anything if he had.

He had already made up his mind that he was going to find him as soon as he was dressed. He needed to see Sherlock. No, fuck that. He needed to kiss him. He needed to sleep with him. He was sick of being careful. He was sick of caring. He just wanted to be with his boyfriend and not care.

The change rooms were empty, but he knew the team would come up for their customary after-game assembly. It was becoming easier to tune it out. Otherwise the stupidity just made him want to break something.

"You know if you dribbled as well as you shovelled food in your mouth, we'd still be on top of the table-"

"Shut the fuck up."

There were peels of hooting laughter outside the change room door. John rolled his eyes to the grimy wall opposite. He heard footsteps behind him.

The chatter stopped almost completely. Someone made a derisive sound through their nose. Billy and two of the others slung their kitbags onto the bench along the far wall, about as far as they could get from John. John didn't bother looking at them.

Soon after, Marty and the rest of the team turned up. Ben was the only one who came to his bench. He'd stopped trying to convince John that his teammate's vitriol was all in his head. It was perfectly clear to anyone what was happening and John didn't need anyone to sugar-coat it for him.

Marty was talking in a loud, obnoxious voice to the general assembly. John hadn't heard him use that voice for a long time. He must have been in a good mood. Or, more specifically, Jim must have been in a good mood.

"I can't wait to get wasted. Fuck, I've had it with school." Marty snorted, heaving his shirt over his head and revealing a well-toned, if grimy torso. "I've had it with the fags we have to see every goddamned week. Can't play for shit."

The others guffawed appreciatively. John narrowed his eyes. He could feel them glancing at him. He knew that the comments were for his ears.

He didn't know what they thought he would do. He had heard them abuse their opponents more times than he could count. He didn't think there was much left they could say that would have made him even pause.

He decided to skip a shower nonetheless. He wanted to get away from his teammates. He wanted to forget they existed. For tonight he just wanted to pretend that he was somewhere else, and he didn't care what they said or what they did.

Or so he thought.

Only too quickly the conversation turned away from football and towards a subject he was more than sick of hearing about.

"Don't put your hand in that, you sick bastard! Those walls haven't been cleaned since the last century!"

John looked up. Billy was leaning against the wall with one hand, yanking his jeans up with the other. He gave his friend a scornful look and didn't move it from the admittedly grim looking stain on the tiles.

"Don't lick your hand whatever you do!"

"Yeah, AIDS for sure," Billy snickered.

"That's not so bad. You can go plough Mr. Hurst-"

There was a burst of intensely raucous laughter. John's stomach clenched. He looked away, stuffing his clothes into his bag.

"Yeah, two gay plague victims together," Marty said, with poisonous relish. "Then you can't pass it on to all those other poor, dirty fags."

John gritted his teeth until he heard something click in his jaw. Ben stirred uncomfortably next to him.

"That's what they should do," snickered a ginger haired boy called Harris. "Round up all the shirt lifters, stick 'em in a compound. Let them spread their diseases all they like-"

John had moved before his brain had had time to process what he was doing. A millisecond later and Harris's freckled face was mere inches from his. Somehow his hand had found its way into a near stranglehold around the collar of his football shirt.

There was a taunting chorus of sounds from around him. Marty was grinning widely. Harris tried to tear himself away from him and partly succeeded. John redoubled his grip.

"Get the fuck off me," he snarled, twisting violently. "I don't swing that way, fucking fag."

Something seemed to snap in John's mind. He pulled his fist back and a moment later pain erupted in his knuckles. The blood was more than he had anticipated. A lot of it flicked onto his shirt and his hand.

Harris stumbled back, clutching at his face and gaping at him, while the blood streamed from both nostrils.

Some of the boys were laughing in delight, screaming at them to fight. Others looked more disturbed. Marty's smile had vanished.

"Shit, mate," Ben said in his ear, his hands gripping the back of his shirt. "Calm down." He pulled him back.

"You cunt!" Harris yelped, trying fruitlessly to stem the blood. He seemed too horrified to retaliate.

When Ben had successfully tugged John out of the change rooms, the molten lava that seemed to be moving thickly through every one of his veins had not ebbed. He was angrier than before. He wanted to kill Harris. He wanted to kill Marty. Fuck, he wanted to kill Ben for watching and doing nothing to stop him being victimized like a fucking animal.

He yanked himself from Ben's grip. He didn't remember ever breathing this hard.

He whirled around, and caught sight of Jim waiting by the steps. He was leaning against the railing; it was too dark to see his facial expression but John knew what was there: contempt, relishing enjoyment of the destruction he was causing, contentment. Ben saw where his eyes were fixed.

"No," he said, sounding vaguely panicked. "Fuck, John. What's wrong with you? Calm the fuck down. You're acting like a psycho!"

John ignored him. He walked towards Jim. Behind him he could hear some of the other boys spilling out of the change rooms to catcall him.

When he was less than three feet away, Jim finally looked at him and smiled. John stepped closer to him, until they were almost nose to nose.

"You stole my goddamned phone."

Jim's smile only grew brighter. "Ah, if it isn't the man of the match!"

John pushed him hard against the railings. "Give me back my fucking phone."

Jim laughed delightedly. "Looks like Sherlock isn't the only one who likes things a little rough! His boy toy is getting all dominant!"

"This is the last time I'll say it," John spat, staring hard into Jim's cold, gleeful eyes. "Give it back."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Jim smirked.

John shoved a hand into Jim's chest, hard enough to make the boy gasp.

"I'm warning you, if you keep messing with me and Sherlock," he breathed, conscious of the audience they had behind them. "I will make you regret it."

To his horror, Jim seemed only further amused by that threat. He gave a short, mirthful laugh straight into John's face. "You know he's meant for me. You know it. We're meant tp fight, to hate until the very last breath. There's something between us that you could never understand. We're  _meant_  for each other."

"John?"

For a moment John didn't move. He stared at Jim, wanting nothing more than to break every bone in his face one by one.

"John!"

Sherlock's voice was close behind him. He felt the familiar hands grip his shoulders and tug him backwards. He seemed deaf to the comments of his teammates, to what Jim was saying to Sherlock with that knowing, poisonous smile hoisted mechanically on his face.

"Come on." Sherlock's breath tickled his ear.

He let himself be guided away from Jim, into the hallway. Into the school. Into the dorms. He let Sherlock steer him towards his room, and open the door for him and take his bag off his aching shoulder.

He sat numbly down on the bed and stared at his knees. He didn't hear what Sherlock said to him. He stared ahead and didn't speak.

"What's wrong?"

The question seemed to arrive in his ears many long minutes after Sherlock verbalized it. The words didn't seem to mean anything; he had heard them so many damn times before.

"What's wrong?" he said hollowly, staring at Sherlock's pale, exquisite face. There was a deep bruise over his right eye; John couldn't even bring himself to wonder how it had happened. He felt hollow. "What's wrong with me?"

Sherlock was kneeling in front of him; there was a frown of concern on his face. His hands rested gently on John's knees. "Tell me." Those words sounded alien coming from Sherlock. Hard, sharp Sherlock with all his angles and coldness and hardness. This gentleness, this tenderness was confusing. It cut him to the bone.

"Apart from the fact that my father wishes I was dead, everyone in this school hates me, Jim Moriarty wants to put me through a meat grinder and I'm starting to dread waking up in the morning, everything is just peachy," he said. His voice wavered. The careless, jovial tone he had been intending suddenly sounded intensely pathetic.

He looked away. God fuck it, he was not going to do this.

Sherlock didn't speak. Even as he felt the hot, shameful moisture begin to roll down from his eyes like the blood from Harris's broken nose, he tried to convince himself he could stop it. It pooled in his mouth, it made his throat ache. He wanted to scream.

Sherlock's arms were around him. He didn't even remember moving, but Sherlock was holding him. He said nothing, because he knew he didn't have to say anything. He may have known very little about the terrible variety of human emotions, but he did know that.

\--

Kissing John while his face was warm and wet with tears was a new and not altogether uncomfortable experience. He could feel how the tears made John's eyelashes hard and clumpy, he could feel how his lips contorted with the effort not to sob, he could feel the shuddering movements of John's back and chest as he tried to swallow his misery.

Sherlock felt he might die from the hatred he felt for himself. It was as though for the first time he saw everything clearly. What a hateful hypocrite he had been. What a heartless coward. He didn't deserve John. It almost killed him to admit it. He couldn't picture existence without John, but he would not ignore the truth. He did not deserve John Watson.

He knew what he had to do. It wasn't a decision, it was a fact. If he didn't, he would never be worthy of John.

He didn't want to break the silence. John was wrapped around him like a vine, his legs curling around his, his arms around Sherlock's torso. He wanted to stay like this forever.

"John, I-"

John broke him off with another kiss. This one was deeper. John gently opened his lips with his and took ownership of Sherlock's mouth. His hands moved gently down Sherlock's waist to the buttons on his jeans.

"John," Sherlock croaked, as John lowered his lips to his neck.

Every part of him was screaming at him to stop, but his body was decidedly deaf. John suckled on the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He gave him a soft, hot bite on the curve of his neck.

John slid a hand between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock hadn't realise how his hands were moving over John's body, rubbing his shoulders, sliding up and down the curve of his waist.

John broke away from his neck with a hiss and crawled up so his mouth was almost against Sherlock's ear. "Turn over." It was almost a growl.

Sherlock blearily obeyed, staring at John's tear-stained face in bemusement. He rolled onto his stomach and felt John straddle his lower back. John threaded a hand into his hair and leant down so his lips grazed Sherlock's neck again. In a slick, warm trail he licked down from Sherlock's earlobe to the dell between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock shivered. John remembered his weakness for that place. John nuzzled into his skin. Sherlock gave a choked groan.

Then, without warning, the pressure was gone and John's body was gone. He jerked his head back and felt John's hands touch his hips. "Up."

He raised his hips and John's hands slid under to unbutton his jeans. He yanked them down, pulling Sherlock's underwear with them. His erection was aching for the friction of the bed.

He jerked as John's hand wrapped around his cock. "John- Oh," he said, suddenly more helpless than he had ever been.

He slowly lowered himself, careful not to trap John's hand. He heard John unzip himself wth his free hand.

Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow. He thought fleetingly of lube and condoms, but the next moment he could feel John's erection pressed against his entrance. He moaned into the pillow and spread his legs wider.

John eased himself in slowly, and Sherlock felt his hand loosen on his cock as the pressure overtook him. "Uh! Yes." he said in a thick, coarse voice. "Sherlock!"

"I'm here," Sherlock gasped into the pillow.

He felt intensely full, intensely tight. John seemed to fill every inch of him.

He started to rock. John's hand loosened on his cock, and he felt his body roll down so he was kneeling over him, close and almost prostrate.

John fucked him in slow waves. He filled him like smooth, warm water into sand. Sherlock rubbed himself haplessly against the bed and let his mind go blank with white noise.

"Sherlock." John's voice was low and husky. "Sherlock, I love you."

Sherlock sobbed into the pillow's musty cotton.

"Sherlock! Oh!"

John's movements became abruptly frenetic. Sherlock curled his back with a rough growl.

He orgasmed mere seconds before John. The heated rush of John's seed filled him, and he felt John ride out the remainder of his ecstasy in sharp, messy jolts against him.

John rested his head against Sherlock's back. For a moment neither of them moved. There seemed to be utter silence around them. Not even the dormitories around them could penetrate it.

John rolled off of him with a watery chuckle. Sherlock turned to watch him clumsily re-dress himself, a little shaky on his legs.

"Sorry," he said, looking over his shoulder at him. "Emotional distress always makes me horny."

Sherlock got up and pulled his jeans back up, without bothering to clean away John's ejaculate. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching his boyfriend flatten his hair in the mirror on the door.

"I couldn't possibly have made a bigger fuckwit out of myself if I had tried," John said, with an wry laugh. "I seem to be the expert at making matters worse."

He turned to look at Sherlock.

"What's the matter? Are you ok?"

"Yes," Sherlock croaked.

"Are you sure?" John said, frowning. "You look awful."

Sherlock licked his lips. "I have to tell you something."

John gave an unconvincing laugh. "That sounds ominous-"

"John, please," Sherlock said abruptly. "Listen."

John stared at him blankly, and finally gave a small nod.

"I..." Sherlock took one last look at his boyfriend's face, unsuspecting and trusting. "I kissed him. I kissed Jim Moriarty."

_End of Chapter Twenty-Seven_


	28. Chapter 28

"John?"

Sherlock couldn't stand the silence. John was looking at him, his eyes blank. His cheeks were still gently flushed, as though the heat from their encounter was still lingering on his skin, but he couldn't have been colder, less present. Sherlock felt as though if he reached out his hand, it would go straight through him and touch the door behind him.

He stood up slowly, feeling bleary and windswept from being pressed against the mattress. "John?" His throat felt full of thick, tacky saliva.

"I heard you," John said. His voice was hollow and expressionless.

Sherlock felt his skin begin to prick with heat. He had expected John to scream, to hit him, to throw things, but he was silent. He was silent, and so cold.

"I..." Sherlock wanted to step towards him, he wanted to touch him, to make him look at him, force him to forgive him, but he felt paralysed. "I don't know what to say."

"You can tell me why," John said quietly. His eyes were fixed on him. It was unbearable. Sherlock could almost feel his disbelief, his shock. It cut deeper to know just how unprepared John had been for Sherlock's cruel surprise.

Sherlock gave his head a gentle shake. "I... I don't know. It just... It started out as a game." The words came so limply from his mouth.

"A game?" John almost flinched. A frown was creeping onto his face, like a crack running down marble.

Sherlock reeled. "I... I never meant for it to go this far." The truth sounded harsh and artless, even in his own ears. "He has every boy in this school doing his bidding. Hester, Pip. The lot of them."

John's eyes narrowed. "I don't give a fuck what Jim Moriarty plans to do with the rest of the school," he said, his voice low and throbbing with rage. "I don't give a fuck if he intends to strap a bomb to his chest and detonate it in the chapel. What I don't quite understand is what this has to do with your  _kissing him!"_

The last words echoed wildly, shrilly around the sparse walls of the dorm room.

Sherlock took an unsteady step towards him. John moved back sharply against the door, like he had been physically repulsed. "Don't touch me," he said, his voice trembling.

"John-" Sherlock began helplessly.

"When?" John said. His features had hardened. Sherlock knew that the initial shock had given way to anger. Intense anger.

Sherlock searched his face, looking for a sign of the boy who had been standing there just minutes before. His earnest, kind, trusting John, the John who had needed Sherlock, had wanted Sherlock, had made love to him. He was gone. And John was sharp and hard and cold as ice.

" _When_?" John snapped. He was still pressed hard against the door, as far from Sherlock as he could physically be while still in the same room.

Sherlock sighed softly. "Over a week ago," he said quietly.

John shook his head very slowly. He looked away. "Over a week ago," he repeated. "You kissed him over a week ago."

Sherlock's fingers twitched uneasily beside him. He had never wanted to touch John so badly. He didn't dare even try and take another step closer. Below John's deathly calm exterior, Sherlock knew there was fury. But above all else, he knew there was pain. He could see it in his eyes; he could feel it in every frenetic movement he made.

"We've fucked twice since then," John said, staring impassively at the carpet. "We've had sex  _two_   _fucking times_ , and you just lay there, and you knew what you had done... and you said nothing."

Sherlock's mouth felt very dry. "You're right," he said, his voice hoarse. "I know I should have told you."

John looked at him. Perhaps he expected Sherlock to defend himself. The pained frown quivered on his eyebrows.

"And did he do that?" John nodded his head at him. Sherlock knew he was talking about his black eye.

He gingerly touched it, running a finger around the stinging outline. "No," he said shortly, dropping his hand back beside him. "Someone else did that."

He said no more. John frowned at him, and then looked away with a shrug. Sherlock saw his features tauten uncertainly. His hands were frozen into fists beside him. "If you ever came to me, perhaps I could have helped you, but you have to do everything yourself."

Sherlock felt a pang of anger. "You never asked," he said. "And I didn't want to jeopardize your position."

John jerked his head towards him, his cheeks flushing. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means," Sherlock retorted.

John's cheeks flared deeper. "So this is my fault? I wasn't there to guard you every living minute so you went and stuck your tongue down Moriarty's throat?"

"It wasn't like that," Sherlock said hurriedly.

John sent him a disgusted look. "What is wrong with you?"

"You weren't there," Sherlock snapped. "I handled things exactly how I was able to."

"By kissing that psychopathic bastard!" John spat. "Yeah, that was just a  _genius_ move, that was."

"He came onto me!" Sherlock found himself replying angrily. He needed to make John understand. "He's a manipulator! He fucked with my mind. He wants to destroy me."

"Don't try and justify what you did with that melodramatic bullshit!" John shouted. "You messed around with someone behind my back! Grow the fuck up and admit it! You could have walked away from him at  _any time_."

There was a ringing silence. It pounded inside Sherlock's head. The blood pumped wildly in Sherlock's ears. He panted for air.

He knew what came next, what had to come next. He felt helpless to stop it. He had tried so many times to reconcile himself with the consequences of what he had done, but every time he had just found himself thinking desperately of what he could do to stop John from leaving him.

"You're right," he said. The hairs on his arms pricked up violently. "I let him get to me. I let him get under my skin. But... but I could have stopped him. I could have." He felt that in that moment he was throwing away any last chance he had to keep John. He was throwing away everything. Jim had cost him everything.

John looked away.

"Jim Moriarty knew exactly what buttons to push." Sherlock didn't know where he found the strength to keep speaking, when he felt he might shatter where he stood. "As long as he's in this school, we're in danger. Everyone is in danger." His voice almost gave out beneath the stress of emotion in his chest. And inside his head, the same words kept repeating over and over:  _John can't leave._

"I don't know if I can do this anymore," John said numbly, staring at the wall. "I'm so tired, Sherlock." His voice wavered thinly.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself, a sickening flare of panic propelled him forward and he found himself a foot from John, his hands clinging uselessly to his shirt and shoulders. "We can do it together," he was saying foolishly, desperately. "I promise we can. I'll... I'll look after you."

John hadn't pushed him away, but he barely met his eye as he shrugged away Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock, don't," he said, through gritted teeth. Sherlock saw his eyes were bright and damp. "I'm not a child; I don't need to be protected."

Sherlock stepped back, his heart pounding so rapidly he could hardly distinguish the beats. He felt sick to his stomach. "John," he said, looking frantically at John's face. "John. Please, look at me."

"You told me you would die before you hurt me," John said blankly, staring unfocusedly past him.

"John, don't," Sherlock said. His fingers were tingling furiously. "Please, don't."

He remembered when John had begged him not to leave. It had seemed so simple to feed his own fury, and ignore John's anguish and desperation. Now he felt it. He felt it more keenly than anything else he had felt in his life. Every sensation or emotion he had ever experienced suddenly seemed like nothing but the slightest touch on his numb skin. He had never known true pain until this moment.

"John." Sherlock touched John's chin. John didn't push him away. Sherlock gently guided his eyes up to meet his. They were beautiful, even tainted by pain. "John, I need you. I won't survive without you." He was aware of the touch of hysteria that was coming into his voice, but he was powerless to stop it. "Please, don't just walk away."

John seemed to slide down against the door, and fall slightly limper against him. Sherlock moved his arms to grip his waist. John twisted against him, making only the weakest attempt to break free. "Sherlock," he almost moaned. "I can't. How can I do this? How? Why him? Why?"

Sherlock said nothing. His breathing was shallow and rapid. John was pressed against him, but his arms were limp by his side. He felt cold. Sherlock had never felt further from him.

John finally gave him a push, firm but not rough. Sherlock stepped back, letting his arms drop from John's torso. "I need some time alone. I need time to think," John said almost blearily, turning to open the door.

"John." John stopped, his back to Sherlock. He turned his head to the side. "I love you. I always have. I always will."

John didn't move for a moment, and then, slowly, he opened the door and walked out.

\--

The morning was brash and unwelcome. Sherlock lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and having little inclination to get up. He could feel Ben casting occasional glances at him as he got dressed and packed books into his bag.

He had had fitful moments of sleep the night before, between awaking with an abrupt jolt, what felt like minutes later. For a moment, in the dark, he forgot what had happened the day before. And then it came rushing back in a sickly wave.

"You better get up." Sherlock wordlessly looked at his roommate, standing with one hand on the door, and the other on the strap of his backpack. "Blake will come hunting for you."

Sherlock looked at the ceiling and said nothing. He heard the door open; there was a burst of voices from the corridor, and then it closed and he was alone.

It was hard to understand how Ben was still functioning, how they were all still functioning. How were they still dressing themselves? How were they still going to classes? Talking to each other? They were so full of ignorance. And Sherlock envied them. He would give anything not to care. He wanted not to feel. He was done with feeling.

Somehow he found himself upright. He felt for his clothes in a cold, stiff pile on the floor by the door, unable to care how wrinkled and dishevelled his uniform would be when he pulled it on. He didn't completely know why he was forcing himself to go to class. He could easily tell Blake he was sick. He could pull that off without too much trouble. He glanced at his pale, tired reflection in the mirror on the door. He looked ill. He felt ill. He would have gladly climbed under the covers of his bed and lain there until he rotted away.

But he had to see John. It would be torture. It would cut him to the very bone to see him, so soon after the events of the day before, but it was compulsion, not desire that was driving him.

When he reached the homeroom, he was greeted by thirty pairs of eyes swivelling towards him as he entered the door. Sherlock glanced around them. Twenty-nine. John, seated at the end of the back row, did not look up.

Sherlock's eyes lingered on him. He wanted him to look up. He wanted him to see him, and to know that Sherlock was sorry, and to forgive him. He felt certain that if John saw him, he would know. He would have known how badly Sherlock was hurting. But, John did not look up.

"Nice black eye, Holmes. You walk into a door?" someone jeered from along the row. There were titters.

Sherlock glanced at Jim on his way to his desk. He didn't look pleased. He had every reason to be. It wouldn't take long for him to hear of what had happened between Sherlock and John, and Sherlock didn't know what would stop him from destroying them both when he did. But, he seemed nettled by the break in ranks. His lackeys were loyal, but they were still teenagers. Old habits died hard.

It was as though a layer of dust had been shaken from his classmates. It was almost as though they knew what had occurred between John and Sherlock, and it was invigorating them with a new spirit that had been lacking since they fell collectively under Jim's sway. Jim didn't seem to appreciate this return of spirit, even if it was directed towards a bruised and ashen-faced Sherlock.

He glanced sharply at Sherlock's wounded eye, and his lips visibly thinned. It was clear that he was wondering which of his pawns had stepped out of line. He'd probably assume it was Marty. Sherlock couldn't relish the thought of Marty being rebuffed yet again by Jim. It meant nothing.

The titters died very quickly, as Sherlock sat down. It felt like an age since he had last sat there. Nothing had changed. The classroom was the same. The people were the same. The world outside was the same. But John had left him.

Ms. Stone walked in, in her usual brisk, humourless manner, her hair tied back forcefully from her face and the roll tucked firmly under the arm of a pale orange jacket. She cast a brief look over the class as she crossed to her desk. Sherlock remembered his conversation with Hurst, the first of Jim's casualties. How simple it seemed for him to ruin people's lives, to spread rumours, to divulge people's deepest secrets, all for... what? What did Jim want?

Sherlock curled his hand on top of the desk in front of him and turned to look out of the window next to him. In the grimy glass he caught a glance of his pale face and his shrivelled eye.

"Quiet!" Ms. Stone was shouting over the chatter. "I have to call the roll!"

Maybe Sherlock should have listened to Mycroft. It wasn't the first time the thought had occurred to him. Mycroft might have been a proud, pompous old tosspot, but he hadn't ever wilfully gone out of his way to harm another. Not as far as Sherlock knew. But why had he gone about it in such a roundabout way?

"Mr. Hester?"

"Here," came Marty's sullen voice.

Because he was a Holmes, that was why. They seemed cursed with this... this inability to go about things in the way any normal person would have. Mycroft had thought he was protecting Sherlock from himself. From John. But naive Mycroft hadn't realised who the true source of the poison was.

"Mr.  _Holmes._ Would you please pay attention?"

Sherlock looked at Ms. Stone. She frowned at him, tapping the roll irritably. "What?"

"Would you be so kind as to answer when I call you?" Ms. Stone snapped.

"Sorry," Sherlock retorted. " _Here_."

Ms. Stone's eyes narrowed. There were sniggers from behind him. He seemed to have scored a point.

"Any more insolence from you, Holmes and it'll be a detention. Mr. Isaacs-

Sherlock's anger flared before he could stop it. "In my experience, "insolence" is the word people in minor positions of power use when those under them have the gall to humiliate them."

Some of the boys gave shouts of laughter. Many of them had clearly wanted to have a dig at the unsmiling shrew since she had arrived.

Ms. Stone's ashen complexion went pink. She placed her pen down slowly on the desk in front of her, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. "I think you can wait outside until we're finished," she said coldly. "Unless you have anything else to say."

Sherlock got up out of his seat and wordlessly walked across the classroom, barely conscious of the stares. He wondered if John was looking at him. He no longer knew whether he wanted him to be.

It was a relief to get out into the deserted silence of the hallway. All of the doors on either side were closed and he could occasionally hear a teacher's voice calling out names or reading out a long, inaudible drone of announcements.

Sherlock slid down against the wall beside the bag racks. He didn't know why he had said what he said. Perhaps he was just taking his frustration out on an easy target, or maybe he resented Ms. Stone for so willingly stepping into the vacated position of her disgraced colleague.

He rested his head against the wall and waited for his classmates to emerge. Half of him wanted to crawl back to his dorm and stay there, but that would be too much like admitting weakness. He didn't want Jim to realise what had happened for as long as he could prevent it. It would give him time to think of how he was going to get them out of the shit they were in.

Not long after, the door opened with a slam against the wall. He scrambled up to keep from being trampled. He flattened against the wall, just as Marty and Jim were passing him. Jim sent him a shrewd look as he passed him. Behind him, Marty's pale eyes darted between them. It must have been very difficult to watch the person he was so obsessed with direct all of his energy onto someone else.

Behind them, Marty's friends were still in a brighter mood than they had been for a long time. One of them slapped Sherlock on the back in a boisterous manner. The others jeered and made comments about his black eye.

"Good one, Holmes," they said, only partly scornful.

"Who gave you that black eye?" one of them quipped. They were mobbed around him like preschool children.

Sherlock had to try and keep from crinkling his nose at their sudden respect for him. "Would you let me past?" he said curtly, trying fruitlessly to nudge his way through them.

"Aw, come on, Holmes," they sneered, tugging at his backpack and clothes. "Don't be such a fucking ponce."

Jim looked ready to skin someone. He was barely containing his breathing. His hands were curled into balls beside him. Marty looked unconvincingly solemn, but Sherlock was sure he would have loved to be in front, and perhaps give Sherlock another black eye to match the one he had.

"Come on, back off," came a voice from the back of the crowd. "Leave him alone."

A few of the boys shuffled out of the way, giving Sherlock time to push his way through them. He passed Ben on the outskirts of the mob. Sherlock knew it was him who had spoken.

He looked at him as he passed him. Ben glanced at him briefly and then turned away. Sherlock hurried up the corridor, turning his back on the crowd. He could hear a few of the other boys chiding Ben behind him.

He turned the corner and ahead of him he saw, past the hunched backs of two of his nameless classmates, an unmistakeable blonde head. Sherlock's heart skipped in his chest. Before he had decided whether it was a good idea or not, he had sped up to reach him. He stalked past his two classmates and drew level with John before the boy had realised he was being dogged.

John looked around in alarm. "Sherlock," he gasped, looking around uncertainly. It had been a long time since they had dared talk in public.

Sherlock didn't care who saw them. It no longer mattered. The only thing that held him back from pinning John against the nearest wall and forcing him to listen to him were the remnants of his concern for John's position in the school.

Sherlock took the sleeve of John's jumper between his finger and thumb. "John, you have to listen to me."

John flushed red, his eyes flashed. "You're doing this here?" he said, through gritted teeth. He looked agitatedly over his shoulder.

"You have to listen," Sherlock snapped, not loosening his grip. "You can't just walk away-"

John yanked his arm forcibly from Sherlock's fingers. "Don't you get it, Sherlock?" he spat. "I don't want to talk about it."

Sherlock stopped short where he was. John took two steps and then stopped and slowly turned towards him. Neither of them spoke. Their two classmates passed them, glancing curiously between them. John watched them go.

When they were out of earshot, John turned back to him, his shoulders were heaving gently. "Don't do this again," he said coldly. "I'm not ready to talk about this."

"John-" Sherlock began.

"Just leave it," John snapped.

He turned on his heel and stalked away. Sherlock watched him go, his heart beating with sickening speed in his chest.

\--

John walked down to the football field with Ben that evening. He didn't want to be alone, though of course he didn't mention that to Ben. He couldn't find the strength to make small talk, and was glad that Ben seemed to realise this and made up for it by talking at length about the car his parents would be buying him for his birthday. It required little to no input from John.

John felt like he had walked around with a battle wound the entire day. His stomach hurt, his heart hurt, his eyes hurt, his throat hurt. Everything seemed to take twice as much effort to accomplish. When he spoke, or laughed it sounded hollow, because it was. His thoughts were polluted constantly by Sherlock. He was obsessed with overlooking every little detail of the terrible conversation they had had the night before. Fuck, it hurt. Why was he doing it to himself?

And how could he have been so damn stupid? Sherlock's strange behaviour. Jim's crude little suggestions. How could he not see what it meant? He had so wanted to believe that he had cured Sherlock of his... his heartlessness. But, he hadn't.

"It's bright red, you know," Ben was saying, as they reached the doors to the courtyard. "Pretty poufy colour, but I'm thinking I'll get some really sweet yellow flames painted on. My mate reckons he can get me some cheap subwoofers too."

John nodded blankly, pushing open the doors with one hand. Ben glanced at him. He seemed to know what John was thinking. He couldn't possibly, but pretending he did was strangely comforting.

The courtyard was blindingly dark. John and Ben stopped short on the stairs. The floodlights were usually lit by now, so they could find their way to the field.

"What the fuck?" Ben said, from beside him. "Who's the dumb shit who forgot to turn the floodlights on?"

"We better get down to the pitch and see if anyone's down there," John replied, his voice sounding strange to him after being silent for most of the day.

They stepped carefully down the stairs and trudged across the damp gravel courtyard, hands held out in front of them like blind men. John could hear Ben breathing softly beside him. A strange feeling came across him.

"Ben," he said, slowing his pace.

"What?" whispered Ben.

"I... I think we should go ba-"

A sharp blow to his stomach winded him and he immediately curled over, clutching at his stomach. He heard Ben cry out beside him. The next thing he was aware of was punches hitting him over every inch of his face, head and torso. But they felt too hard, too painful to be punches. He was convinced someone must have been kicking him, it hurt so profoundly.

He found himself hunched into the gravel, trying to protect his face from the blows. Ben beside him was swearing wildly. A scrape of gravel told John that he was being dragged away. John felt something wet and metallic pool in his mouth. He whimpered into the dirt. His eyes were screwed shut. He wanted to cry out, but his throat felt bruised. He couldn't speak. Not even to plead for them to stop.

"How do you like that, you gay fuck?"

A gob of something hit his cheek and dribbled down to his chin.

Then, abruptly, it stopped. John panted desperately into the ground, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs through the pain. He heard three or four figures around him back away, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. Someone else was coming towards him, their steady, almost mechanical steps loud and sharp.

"Oh, _dear_. Look at the mess, you've made."

Jim's voice was sickeningly sweet; he seemed delighted by the scene. There were no laughs, no jeers. His assailants were silent.

John tried to speak. Nothing but a weak croak left his mouth. His eyes flickered open; they felt badly swollen. He had bitten his tongue when he had fallen, and the blood was trickling down through his teeth. He couldn't seem to close his mouth; it hung open like it was on broken hinges.

He felt cold leather touch his chin. His head was pushed back like it was a doll's; it lolled limply on his shoulders. "So difficult keeping the rabble in check," Jim said softly. "Just when you think you have them broken, cracks appear."

He gave a short, melodic laugh and jerked back his foot. His eyes only now beginning to become accustomed to the gloom, John watched Jim walk away some metres, his hands buried in his pockets.

"Where's the other one?" came his voice, sharp now.

"Inside," said one of the boys. They all seemed petrified of him. They were hanging back as far as possible. Only Marty was within a metre of him. "What should we do with him?"

"Nothing," Jim said, examining his nails. "Let me talk to him. I'm not above persuasion."

There were dark, forced laughs from the others. John moaned against the gravel. His ribs felt like they may be broken.

"Now, now, Johnny," Jim said, walking back towards him. He knelt down next to him. His right knee was inches above John's head. He caught a whiff of spicy cologne. "We'll get Marty to sort out those nasty bruises for you."

He laid a hand against John's forehead. John weakly tried to turn away, but it hurt intensely to move his neck. Jim tutted, stroking his hair with a gloved hand.

"Now, now, darling. Don't struggle. We need to keep you pretty for Holmes, don't we?"

He said the last words very loudly and there were louder, more genuine jeers from the others this time. John's stomach clenched and unclenched. Oh God. They knew. Jim had told them all.

Jim straightened up. "Marty, clean him up and make sure he doesn't look a complete mess, will you?" he said sharply, jerking his head towards him. "Try and not to fuck it up, won't you?"

"Yes," Marty said shortly.

Jim narrowed his eyes. He took three quick steps towards him and took Marty's chin roughly between his finger and thumb, forcing the taller boy to look at him. "Why are you sulking?" he spat. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Y-yes," of course," Marty said, looking terrified out of his wits.

"Then wipe that miserable expression off your face and get to work," Jim snapped. He let him go with a shove and turned on his heel.

The others followed him in an apprehensive bundle, glancing at each other and not seeming to want to be the one who had to walk closest to him.

John moaned and rolled onto his back. The sky was brilliantly black above him and speckled with more stars than he had bothered to take notice of in all his times of training in the dark. The ground was cold and wet beneath him.

Marty was standing a metre away from him, staring at the school with his hands jammed in his pockets. He didn't speak. John wasn't eager for whatever he had in store for him. He could close his eyes and fall asleep there, if it wasn't for the aching pain in his side.

"What..." John stopped, clutching at his chest. It hurt to talk. He took a struggling breath. "What... what does he... want... want you to do?"

Marty looked at him, his face shaded by the darkness. "Clean you up. You look like a fucking hooker who's been beaten to shit by her pimp."

John coughed painfully. "Why?"

"Shut the fuck up and get up, would you?" Marty retorted.

"How am I supo-" John gasped, clutching a hand to his ribs. "Supposed to walk?"

Marty let out a theatrical sigh and knelt down. "Any fucking funny business and I'll give you worse than that, got it?"

John felt two arms curl around his chest. With a short yelp of pain, he was excruciatingly hoisted to his feet. Marty grunted beside him and yanked one of his arms around his shoulders.

John leant on him heavily, gasping for breath. He didn't care that he was clinging onto Marty Hester, or that he had his arm tightly around his torso. He was in too much pain to care.

"Can you walk?" Marty said brusquely, not letting any inch of pity adulterate his voice.

"Yeah... I think so," John said breathlessly.

They gingerly took a step forward. Every movement was painful , every jolt was like another blow to his gut, but John bit his lip and kept going. He wasn't going to give Marty a reason to hit him.

They reached the changing rooms what felt like half an hour later, though John was sure it hadn't been more than a few minutes. There was a single dirty bulb hanging from the far end of the room. It let off a harsh, garish white light, which was about as soothing as that of the dark room.

John caught a glimpse of his face as they passed the tarnished mirrors above the basins. His face was very swollen, very red and smeared with mud. He lifted a hand and wiped away the damp remnants of the spit from his chin.

He dropped down onto the bench, and Marty stepped back. He wasn't dressed in his football uniform. He was still in his school clothes. In the terrible lighting, his skin looked ghostly white, and his eyes very sunken.

He looked at John for a moment and then turned away. He took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his school jumper. He looked over his shoulder, jerking it towards John.

John shook his head. He watched as Marty lit the fag, taking a lengthy drag. John's stomach stirred unhappily. Why did everything seem designed to stir up memories of him?

Marty turned to him, leaning against the divider of the nearest cubicle. He breathed the smoke out in a pungent stream. John carefully felt his ribs. He winced. They hurt like hell, but he didn't think they were broken. He stretched out his limbs, flexing his fingers and toes. Nothing seemed broken.

He touched his face. His lips felt very sore, and so did his chin, but he thought he had avoided a nasty black eye like Sherlock. He looked sharply at Marty.

"Did you give Sherlock a going over too?" he said.

Marty looked at him. "What?"

"His black eye," John said, wondering where his courage was coming from. "Was that you?"

"I fucking wish," Marty growled. He flicked the cigarette to the ground and pressed his foot against it.

He crossed to the basins, swiping a bottle of Dettol from the closest one. He disappeared into one of the stalls and reappeared with the entire roll of toilet paper.

"If you lay a hand on him, I'll kill you," John said, before he was aware that he was speaking.

Marty jerked his head up, staring at him through the filthy mirror. A nasty smile cracked onto his face; the first John had seen for a long time. "You and what army?"

John didn't reply. Marty poured some of the sickly orange disinfectant onto a pile of toilet tissue. He returned to John and tossed it into his hand.

"Knock yourself out."

He returned to his place by the stall, pulling another cigarette from his pocket. John stared at him and then went to the basins, bringing the Dettol soaked paper with him. He squinted at his reflection beyond the ruined glass. His nose was bleeding, his lip was busted, there was a cut on his forehead. He lifted up his shirt. He could have played dot-to-dot with the bruises on his ribs. He noticed that there were very few on his arms. He wondered if they had deliberately aimed for the parts of his body that wouldn't be visible.

He dabbed at the cuts on his face. The foul-smelling liquid stung like hell, and made him feel sick, but he didn't relish the thought of them getting infected. He wiped away the blood, gritting his teeth to keep from making a sound.

He looked at Marty through the mirror. He found him already watching him, the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"But Jim doesn't want you touching Sherlock, does he?" Jim said, returning to wiping his wounds clean.

"What are you on about?" Marty said sharply.

"He wants Sherlock to himself," John said coolly. "That's why you lot have backed off so much these past few weeks."

In all honesty, that theory had only just come to John, but he had a feeling that he might be right. Marty stirred angrily behind him, narrowing his eyes.

"You just shut it," he said harshly, plucking the cigarette from his lips. He held it like he was holing a joint. "You don't know shit, you stupid fag."

John laughed, and had to restrain a wince. Laughing hurt. He dropped the blood-stained paper into the basin. "Look who's talking."

Marty stared at him. His fag was hanging forgotten beside him. "What?"

John turned, with a snort. "Didn't you realise? I've known for weeks. I saw you giving it to him at a party, you fucking hypocrite."

Marty had gone very pale. It was hard to tell where his skin ended and his hair began. His mouth was open slightly. John felt a thrill of triumph.

"You're making that shit up," Marty said at length, ashen faced.

John turned to him. "Is that the best response you've got?" John retorted. "Yeah, I know all about you two. I know you've been sucking his cock. I know you've been fucking him." He sneered. "I know he's been fucking  _you_."

Marty stepped angrily towards him, curling his hand around John's shirt. "You fucking-"

"Uh uh uh," John said breathlessly. "Jim won't be pleased if you dirty me up."

He could see an internal conflict going on inside Marty's head. He probably would have loved nothing more than to kick the shit out of John, but he wouldn't. John realised that now. Marty needed to follow Jim's directions. It was a compulsion.

Marty let go of him and stepped back. It seemed to take every ounce of his strength to do so. His eyes were narrowed into slits. "You and Holmes..." He seemed repulsed. "How could you touch that freak? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What the hell is the difference?" John snapped, pushing past him. He glanced down at his uniform, there were specks of blood and mud on it, but otherwise there was no suggestion of what had happened in the darkened courtyard.

"Jim Moriarty is a winner," Marty said brusquely. "He's going to be someone."

"Sherlock will be someone," John said quietly, staring at the opposite wall. "I believe in him."

Marty made a sound, between a growl and a snort. "What? Are you in love with that fucker?"

"Are you?" John retorted, rounding on him. "It seems to be that I'm not the only one risking everything for someone else."

Marty jerked back, seeming taken aback by John's force. "What the fuck are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting you're in love with Moriarty," John said drily.

Marty opened and closed his mouth several times, his features working violently. John wasn't sure whether he was going to hit him or burst into tears. He had touched a nerve.

He gave a short, painful laugh and turned his back on him. "I might be a fag, but at least I'm not in complete denial."

Marty didn't reply. John left him, hobbling across the dark courtyard, back towards the school.

\--

When Sherlock reached his room that night he found Ben already there, seemingly working through his homework at his desk. He glanced up when Sherlock entered and nodded before turning back to his work.

Sherlock closed the door behind him, staring at him. "Thanks." The word sounded artless and blank. It seemed only too obvious that he wasn't used to saying it.

Ben looked back at him, his dark eyebrows knitted. "For what?"

"Uh..." Sherlock swallowed. "Speaking up for me." Well, he was hardly going to say "sticking up" was he?

Ben span around in his chair. He still looked bemused. "It's fine," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "They were being dicks."

"They're always dicks," Sherlock replied, eyeing him sharply. "Why was this time any different?"

Ben was silent. He didn't seem abashed by Sherlock's response. At length, he spoke. "I'm sick of Jim. I'm sick of Marty. I'm really sick of feeling like I'm walking on eggshells every time I'm around them. But mostly, I'm sick of the idiots who swarm around them like flies."

Sherlock nodded. He was honest. That was usually a good thing. "I thought you had football practice tonight?" he said, crossing to his side of the room and tugging off his school jumper.

Ben was silent. Sherlock turned to him questioningly. He was feeling increasingly like a deranged ex-boyfriend, but he wanted to know that John was safe and where he was supposed to be. He also knew that if John knew he was still keeping tabs on him he'd be furious. He'd made their position pretty damn clear earlier that day.

Sherlock lowered his eyes. God damn it, he had made such a mess of things.

"Sherlock." Ben's voice suddenly sounded strained.

Sherlock looked up at him. "What?" he said numbly, still thinking about John.

"I..." Ben glanced uncomfortably at the door. "Look, I'm really gonna drop myself in the shit for telling you this, but... but I think John's in trouble."

Sherlock stared at him. "What?" he said sharply. "What do you mean?"

"When we were walking down to the pitch," Ben said uncertainly. "The other boys... They... Jim-"

Sherlock was already at the door. He threw it open and stalked down the corridor to John's room. He pounded on the door with all his might.

The door opened almost immediately. John blinked confusedly at him. Sherlock's eyes darted from the dark stains around his mouth and nose to the filthy state of his shirt, and his stomach coiled with rage. He would get Jim for this.

"What did he do?" he snarled.

John's eyes widened in alarm. "Sherlock, what-"

Sherlock pushed past him. John stared after him, seeming unsure of whether to close the door or not. "You can't just come barging in here," he hissed.

"And when were you going to tell me about this?" Sherlock burst out, turning on him.

The threat of being overheard seemed to win John's internal battle and he hurriedly closed the door. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped.

"I'm fucking pissed," Sherlock retorted. "Who the fuck does he think he is? And why didn't you tell me?"

"I told you before. I am not a child, Sherlock," John said angrily. "I do not need you to protect me. Don't act like you have some God-given right to know what happens to me every minute of the day."

"You can't fight him by yourself," Sherlock said, infuriated. "Don't you see that? Why are you always so Goddamned naive?"

"Why do you always act like I'm so stupid that I can't possibly look after myself!" John shouted.

"Because sometimes I think it's fucking true!" Sherlock roared back at him.

"You fucking wanker!"

"You stupid child!"

They lapsed into silence, both breathing hard for air. Sherlock was tingling with rage. John was furiously flushed and looked ready to run at him. For a moment Sherlock didn't know whether he was going to punch him, or push him against the door and kiss him. At that moment, both options seemed possible.

John turned away, with visible difficulty. "Just get out, Sherlock."

"I won't let him do this," Sherlock said quietly. "I'm not doing this because I think you're weak, I'm doing this because I'm not strong enough to lose you. I'm the weak one, John."

He turned and walked for the door. Behind him he heard John turn back to him, but he remained silent.

When Sherlock was in the corridor, he already knew exactly where he was going. He no longer cared if he had John's approval. He was going to put an end to this.

He reached the common room and pushed open the door, uncertain of what he'd see. He'd never stepped foot inside of it. He found a moderately sized room with old-fashioned wallpaper, a large television on one side, surrounded by sofas, a table in another corner where a handful of boys were playing poker. There were armchairs scattered throughout it.

He attracted a great deal of attention. Almost everyone stared as he walked inside and scanned the interior. He immediately spotted his target, sitting idly in one of the arm chairs, legs crossed and hand glued to his phone.

"Jim," he called loudly.

The effect it had on the room was remarkable. There was almost immediate silence. Eyes darted between him and the seated boy. Jim looked up very slowly from his phone. There was an amused expression playing on his features.

"You called?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"I want to talk to you," Sherlock growled. "Alone."

The corners of Jim's mouth twitched. He thought he could smell victory. He thought he had finally done it, he had finally broken Sherlock. John was isolated and alone. Sherlock had ruined his relationship with the only person who had ever cared for him. What moment could be better to claim victory? He was in for a rude surprise.

Clearly to everyone's surprise, he rose from his chair, sliding the phone into his pocket. "Lead on," he said, the smirk dancing across his lips.

Beside him, Marty looked intensely bitter.

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked across to the opposite side of the hall. He heard the door close behind him and Jim's steady, measured footsteps cross the floor.

"You do so love to make a scene, don't you?" he said, his voice syrupy sweet. "Sherlo-"

Sherlock turned and gripped the front of Jim's shirt. Before the boy had time to steady himself, Sherlock had thrown him against the nearest wall. Jim spluttered, completely winded. He gagged, blinking confusedly up at him.

"You think you've won, you sick fuck," Sherlock said softly. "You haven't even come close. Touch John again and I will make you regret it."

Jim wheezed with laughter. "You and what army?" He coughed thickly.

"You know my brother Mycroft?" Sherlock wasn't proud to play the family card, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Jim sneered. "Of course. How could I forget? Dear Mycroft. He proved to be a much easier nut to crack than I thought."

"What-" Sherlock caught himself. He couldn't let Jim distract him. It was one of his many tricks, throwing Sherlock off guard with a sudden germ of information. But Sherlock was ready this time. "I will make sure my brother ruins any chance you have of getting into a university, getting a loan, owning your own business, you hear me?"

Jim grinned. "Are you scared, Sherlock? Why else would you bring your brother into this? Have you finally realised what I knew all along? I can't be beaten. If I go down, we both go down, my dear."

Sherlock slammed him harder against the wall. Jim gasped, the grin barely shifting from his face. Sherlock moved a hand to his throat. How easy it would be to choke the bastard here. God, he wished he could do it.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head slowly. "No, you will never win. Because I will never give myself to you. Didn't you realise that? I love John."

Jim's eyes flashed. He bared his teeth. "You liar."

"No," Sherlock said, smiling cruelly. "I always have. I would die for him."

"If he knew what you had done-" Jim spat.

"He does," Sherlock said softly. "I told him."

Jim's expression immediately changed. "You... you did what?" he said, a gleeful laugh forcing itself from his restricted throat.

Sherlock stared at him, taken off guard. He could feel Jim's throat trembling beneath his hand.

Jim gave an almost manic shout of laughter. He threw his head back against the wall, the laughter coming in wild howls. "You told him! You told him! God help me!"

Sherlock wanted to move away. The very sight of him made his skin crawl, and he wondered: how had he ever wanted this? What had possessed him?

Jim finally composed himself, tears clinging to his eyelashes. "You stupid amateur," he hissed. "There was no video tape." He giggled manically. "Did he cry? Oh, I bet he did. Poor, poor John. Oh, how it must have hurt for him to know the truth. It would have destroyed him! And you did it all yourself! You clever boy!"

"You're lying," Sherlock said hollowly.

John smirked widely. "You broke John Watson's heart all by yourself. How does it feel to know that?"

Sherlock let go of him and stepped back. Something cold and sickening was spreading over him. "You sick bastard. You've taken everything from him."

"But you helped so nicely," Jim said, with relish. "How could I have recruited those underdeveloped halfwits without the help of some pictorial evidence!"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock said blankly, though he knew in his heart exactly what Jim meant.

"Using John's birthday as your phone's security code," Jim said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "You really are pathetic. But I did enjoy your handiwork. It wasn't difficult to convince those idiots just what John was, when he said it so nicely for himself in text. John... the little... cocksucker." He said the last word in barely more than a poisonous whisper.

Sherlock stared at him numbly. He couldn't have spoken even if he wanted to. His limbs seemed to have stopped functioning, his mouth felt limp.

Jim straightened up from the wall, brushing off his school uniform. He looked up and smiled. "You've lost, Sherlock." He pressed a finger to his lips and then brought it to Sherlock's, pressing hard against Sherlock's mouth. "You've lost."

With that, he turned and walked back to the common room.

\--

There was nervous movement in the room. Jim glanced up from his chair. It had been turned towards the empty space between the television area and the table usually used for poker. Before him were eight or nine boys in their pyjamas. It wasn't ideal, but it was all he had to work with.

To his right was Marty, dressed in a vinyl jacket and jeans and looking sour, as usual. Jim rolled his eyes to himself. You fucked them once, and they thought it was  _twoo wuv._

He tapped his well-manicured nails on the edge of his chair with an impatient cough. Marty glanced at him. "Hey! Shut up!" he bleated at the assembly.

They turned, falling silent as they stared up with appropriate awe at their lord and master, atop his less-than-ideal throne. At the back, Jim could see that dark-haired sop Ben Greer. He had had his misgivings about him for a long time, but tonight he would determine whether or not they were groundless.

"Did you get John back to his dorm room in one piece?" he shot at Marty.

Marty nodded wordlessly.

"Good," Jim said, with satisfaction. "I wouldn't want him to be too broken. I have other things in mind for him."

The boys glanced uncomfortably at each other. They were only enthusiastic about mindless violence up to a point. It was so typical. They were so filled with hatred, but so weak and so pathetic when it came to directing it towards a target. It would take years of training to recondition their weak minds into anything useful, but for the time being Jim thought he had done rather well for his brief stint at Redverse.

"I believe I have the key to Sherlock's downfall," he said at length. "In fact, I've possessed it all along, but I think I played it in the wrong fashion." He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, gazing across the room to the door.

Yes, he had definitely played his advantage in the wrong manner. He had tried to use lust against Sherlock, and failed miserably. What made things far worse was that Sherlock had proven to have a shred of humanity. Something Jim had not counted on. But if Sherlock still insisted on playing the hero, and defending John Watson then Jim would certainly make use of that weakness.

He glanced at his attentive audience and smiled. "Tomorrow, I believe we will drive them both from this establishment for good."

"How?" one of the mindless , bovine fools asked in a tentative manner.

"Just follow my directions and you'll be fine," Jim said disdainfully. "A monkey could do it." He looked dubiously at Billy.

There were anxious mumbles amongst them. Jim rolled his eyes. It had been difficult enough to convince them that their actions against John Watson had been very necessary. He had had to handhold and coax them like children to the very end. The only one who showed any true promise was Marty, but he spent most of his time in a jealous sulk. It was a pity.

"Alright!" He flexed his fingers out on the arms of his chair. "Billy," he said sharply to the oversized lump standing sullenly on the outskirts of the group like a pockmarked mountain with hair. "I trust you still have our little memento." He held out a extremely well-moisturized hand.

Bill shifted forward, digging a pudgy hand into his pocket. He produced a black mobile phone and placed it on Jim's palm. Jim held it up, eyeing his own reflection in the darkened screen. "This is a good start, but it will do us little good without Holmes's too." He looked at Ben. The boy almost recoiled. He clearly had not forgotten their little heart-to-heart. "You have access to him, Greer. You seem to be the logical choice, no?"

Ben shifted where he was. He glanced around him. "I don't know if I'd be that good at it," he said uncomfortably.

The others shifted around him, murmuring. Jim frowned. He did not need someone defying his authority and stirring up the rest of the group. Ben had been a liability from the start. He should have known from how matey he was with John that he would be useless to him.

"Are you refusing?" he said sweetly.

"I... I... no," Ben said, a panicked expression crossing his face. "Not refusing... I'm just saying that-"

"If you don't intend to be of use to me," Jim said, jerking his head to the side, "then you really need not be here." He clicked his fingers at Marty.

Marty immediately walked towards him like the well-trained drone he was. Ben looked flustered. "Wait! I'm not refusing!"

"Take him outside, Marty," Jim said, rolling his eyes. "We don't have time for this."

Marty took a firm grip of the smaller boy's collar and half-dragged, half-led him to the door. Ben had an expression of confusion and panic on his face. Marty opened the door with one hand and yanked Ben after him. The door was slammed behind him.

The others didn't dare turn away from him, but were clearly listening in apprehension. Outside Greer's voice could be heard, shrill and loud. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by a series of lighter, firmer thumps and a few, whimpering cries from Greer. Then there was silence.

Marty returned, looking a shade pinker, but otherwise unchanged. He closed the door behind him and returned to his place next to Jim. Jim smiled at him, and saw a pathetic glimmer of happiness alight in his eyes.

He faced the rest of the group again. They looked very pale. "Now," he said delicately. "Who would like to volunteer to take over Ben's duties?" Nobody raised their hand. In fact most of them seemed to be endeavouring to avoid his eye, without it being obvious that they were doing so. He looked at Billy. "You have proven yourself to have knack for this line of work. You can do it."

Billy looked perturbed. Or perhaps he just had gas. He nodded silently and stared at the ground.

"Very well," Jim said, tapping his fingernails impatiently on the arm of his chair. "Billy will get us the necessary prop and I will do the rest. The rest of you will wait for my instructions, you hear me? We don't want any more hiccups, do we?"

Outside the door there was a low, pained moan. The boys nodded vigorously.

"Wonderful," Jim said, smiling graciously at them. "You may go."

In a silent single file they turned and walked out the door. It was a wonder to behold. A lesser mind could never have bent their defiant spirits to his will. Their minds were feeble, but their sense of entitlement was strong, and that was never easy to combat.

Marty, as always, stayed behind. When the last boy had disappeared and the door had been closed, Jim turned on him.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Why do you stand there with that pathetic look on your face? You're starting to get on my nerves."

He swept out of his chair and snatched his coat from its resting place on the table. He tugged it on, carefully fastened each button.

"I'm doing everything you want," Marty said sullenly.

Jim turned to him with a sneer. "Yes, and you do it with all the good grace of a cantankerous, old woman."

Marty flushed. He still couldn't constrain his emotions, no matter how many times Jim told him to. "I did what you wanted, didn't I? I cleaned up that dirty fag, Watson."

"I've told you not to use that word," Jim snapped. "It's common. Try and give off the air that you weren't birthed in the back of broken down Ford Falcon for once in your miserable life."

"Shut up," Marty spat, balling up his fists.

Jim scoffed at him and turned to flatten his hair in the reflection of the darkened television screen.

There was a pause. Marty stared at him in sulky silence. "Watson knows," he blurted out finally.

Jim turned to him with a scornful tut. "Knows what? Knows how to count to ten? Knows all the planets in the solar system? Knows the meaning of life? What?"

"He knows about us," Marty said, blushing ridiculously.

Jim stared at him for a moment and then gave a short laugh. "Oh, please, Hester. There is no "us." Don't start that queasy nonsense again."

"Then why do we fuck?" Marty said defiantly, his eyes flashing.

"Oh for God's sake! How many times do we have to go through this?" Jim burst out, stamping his foot. "Because you're good-looking and I get bored! Why else would I even look twice at you? You're as thick as a brick and have all the charisma of a drying puddle of mud."

Marty took three haughty steps towards him and shoved him against the table behind him. Jim almost lost his balance, but Marty took a firm hold of his collar. "You bastard. You're lying," he snarled.

Jim laughed in his face. "Don't be so pathetic, Hester. You're supposed to be helping me take down Holmes, not throwing tantrums like a scorned teenage girl."

"You're nothing but a poisonous, self-centred wanker," Marty growled, his grip on Jim's shirt tightening.

"Oh, dry up, Hester," Jim retorted, panting.

There was a ringing moment of silence. And then abruptly the remaining space between them was gone and Marty was slamming his mouth against his with vicious force. Jim grinned with triumph against the taller boy's lips and held tightly to the boy's broad shoulders.

He pulled Marty's shirt open with little concern for the buttons that fell to the floor like gumdrops and scattered around them. Marty's chest was firm and toned from football, and pale as cream. His nipples were dark and hardened with arousal. Jim glanced up at the boy's flushed face and smirked.

"Dirty slut," he said softly, running a hand through Marty's brassy hair.

He was roughly turned around and found himself bent over the poker table with Marty fumbling ineptly with his trousers.

"Hurry up!" he said impatiently.

Hester finally managed to unbutton him and pull the restraining garment around his thighs. His erection was straining against his underwear. In fact, he had been hard from the moment Marty had asked him "why we fuck."

Marty's hands were hot and clammy as they searched his body, pushing up under his coat and shirt. Jim arched against him, rubbing himself against the mound that had formed between Marty's thighs. It was so obvious, even through his clothes.

Jim moaned and bent lower over the table, spreading his hands across it. "Fuck me, Marty. I want it. I want it so bad." Teenage boys were so predictable. So easy. He could have made Marty come where he stood, without even touching him. "I want you inside me."

Marty made a strangled groan and pressed himself against him.

"Come on, Marty," Jim said, breathlessly. He looked over his shoulder at him. He was furiously red and panting. "Fuck me. You like that word don't you?  _Fuck._ You say it so often it's almost meaningless."

Jim flattened himself against the table and felt his trousers tumble down the remainder of his leg and pool around his ankles. One of Marty's hands crept around his hips and wrapped around his weeping cock.

With a rough, artless movement, Marty forced his way into Jim's body. Jim bared his teeth against the intense pain that burst through him.

"Ah! Yes!" he growled, clawing at the wooden surface of the table.

"Fu-uck-" Marty groaned, his mouth very close to Jim's ear.

Jim rocked against him. "Move! Marty!"

Marty inhaled desperately and the next moment he was moving in rough, harsh spurts, massaging Jim's erection in a clumsy, damp manner with the hand that wasn't tangled up in Jim's hair. Marty had a thing for pulling his hair. It was the closest thing to a kink Jim had found in him. Marty was perfectly vanilla in his taste for sex. They fucked in beds, over tables, on sofas, against walls, but Jim usually ended up on his hands and knees with Marty fucking him from behind.

It was dull. But it was better than nothing.

Though certainly not better than Sherlock.

Jim closed his eyes. Oh.

" _Oh_!" he moaned, gritting his teeth. Yes, Sherlock.  _Yes._

Sherlock would fuck him so angrily. He'd make him bleed. Not just his arse, but his hips from where his hands had been curled in ecstasy, his nipples from where he had bit him, his chest from his where his nails had run in deep, lustful trenches.

He would be so angry and so forceful. And so desperate for Jim to take his cock. And so delicate and breakable. Oh, yes. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

"Ugh!" he groaned out loud, hunching low over the table. "Harder!"

He was so close. And Sherlock was close too. He was slamming into him, he was crying out helplessly, he couldn't keep himself from screaming Jim's name. He closed his eyes, threw his head back, needed to go deeper and deeper inside of him.

His orgasm burst over him with furious power. He spent himself over the floor, and Marty's hand. "Oh! Sherlock!" he cried out deliriously.

\--

Sherlock only had to wait three rings before a brisk voice sounded on the line:

"Hello?"

"Mycroft?"

There was a silence.

Sherlock twisted the covers of his bed around his fingers. "Hello?"

"Yes, I'm here," Mycroft said at length. "I was just surprised to hear from you again so soon... and on this number."

"I didn't know whether I'd get through to you on the other one," Sherlock said hurriedly, fingering the piece of card inside his pocket. "And this is important."

"It must be," Mycroft said drily. "After a spat you usually don't talk to me for weeks."

Sherlock prickled. "You were the one who hung up on me- And this isn't about that." He hadn't decided how he was going to broach the subject with his brother. He had thought it best not to rehearse the conversation too much in his mind beforehand.

"Well, I'm a busy man, Sherlock," Mycroft said idly. "What is it?"

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "I need to ask you... about Jim Moriarty."

"I told you everything I know about that boy," Mycroft replied coldly, after a pause.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock retorted. "I know you didn't."

"What has he been saying?" Mycroft said, suddenly alert.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid down onto the floor, resting his head against the mattress of the bed. "He's only suggested things, but I know him, Mycroft. He knows something. And I think it would be much better if I heard it from you."

There was silence. Sherlock rested his head against his palm.

"It's important," he said quietly. "John... John and I broke up."

The words were even harder to say than he thought they would be. He hadn't thought it would physically hurt to admit out loud what he had known in his heart since he had confessed what he had done: it was truly over.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said gently. "I know this will mean little to you, but I am truly sorry to hear that."

Sherlock nodded, forgetting for a moment his brother couldn't see him. "Well... It was my fault anyway..." he said hastily, blinking a few times. "Anyway, that's not why I called you."

"What did Jim Moriarty have to do with your breaking up?" Mycroft said shrewdly.

Sherlock hadn't expected for him to make that connection so easily. "I... I..." He struggled to find the words to tell his brother just what he had done. It would be admitting that Mycroft was right, that he had taken John's heart and shredded it. That he was a hypocrite. That he was heartless. "I did something really wrong," he said finally. "I hurt John terribly. I deserve to be alone."

There was a pause. He could sense that his brother was choosing his words carefully. For once Sherlock didn't feel accosted by his brother's involvement. "I'm sure it is not unfixable," he said finally, with the same gentle tone. "John cares for you very deeply. I'm sure that if you can prove your... feelings- he said the word with slight distaste- for him, he will forgive you readily."

Sherlock felt slightly bashful when he replied. "Thanks," he said embarrassedly.

"And what does this have to do with Moriarty?" Mycroft said promptly, allowing no awkward silence to develop.

Sherlock didn't know how to explain everything that had happened. He didn't even know if he should involve his brother. He didn't know what would happen if he did.

"He's trying to hurt John," he said finally.

Mycroft sighed. "I feared this would happen." He sighed again, and Sherlock heard the familiar groan of his chair as he sat back in it. "I don't know if what I have to tell you will do you much good."

"Tell me anyway," Sherlock said firmly. "I need to know everything about him that I can."

"Sherlock, I don't like the sound of this," Mycroft said flatly. "Do I need to come up there?"

"No!" Sherlock blustered. "I can take care of this myself! Just tell me what you know about Jim Moriarty."

"Fine," Mycroft said, sounding very unconvinced. "I don't know if I really want to say what I have to say over the phone. I'll email you the details."

"I can't wait that long," Sherlock protested.

"I'll do it as soon as I'm off the phone," Mycroft said. "Though I still think that I should make a visit up there and speak to Moriarty myself."

Sherlock snorted humourlessly. "Talking won't help. It's too late for that."

"Well, I hope you know what you're doing," Mycroft said coolly.

"I do," Sherlock said distractedly, getting up from the floor and going across to seat himself in front of his computer. "Thanks. Bye. Hurry up with that email."

"Very well," Mycroft said, sounding unconvinced. "Well... be careful. Bye."

Sherlock hung up and tossed his phone behind him onto the bed without looking. He booted up his laptop- and waited.

_End of Chapter Twenty-Eight_


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock went to bed that night without a reply from Mycroft. He wasn't surprised, but it didn't lessen his annoyance. It made sleep unachievable, and the prospect of thinking of anything else virtually impossible.

The next day he woke very early. There was cold, pale grey light creeping under the curtains across the window. He sat up slowly; the covers slid off his torso, and the morning cold smarted his bare arms.

His phone was lying blankly on the floor beside his bed. He reached down and lit up the screen with his forefinger. The screen was empty; there were no new text messages. He slipped out of bed, his chequered pyjama bottoms dropping down his legs from where they had bunched up around his knees in the night.

He snatched up his phone on his way to his desk and deposited it beside him. He glanced across to where Ben was. He was lying with his back to him, dark hair fanned out on the pillow. He had slunk in after lights-out and gone straight to bed. Sherlock had no idea where he'd been lurking, but he did know that he hadn't bothered changing out of his uniform before he collapsed into bed.

Sherlock turned back to his computer and immediately went into his email. His heart immediately ascending into his throat as he typed in his password. The page took less than three seconds to load, and there it was: the yellow envelope symbol next to his brother's imperiously lengthened name: Mycroft Holmes. There was no subject.

He opened it immediately, not allowing himself to relish in the apprehension of what his brother had to tell him. He just wanted to read it and blot out the fear of the unknown. This was just another step to helping John. That was all it was.

The blaze of the white email stunned his eyes in the gloom for a moment. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to where Ben was, but he hadn't stirred. Sherlock shielded his eyes and began to read with an almost aggressive determination not to be moved by what he read.

_Sherlock,_

_Before you start whining, this email was very slightly delayed, because I had to check my facts concerning certain details. I don't think that meddling with Jim Moriarty is wise unless you have something to back yourself up with. And I truly hope that you don't intend to cross Moriarty, Sherlock. I doubt whether anything I say, much less in print, will dissuade you, but he is not to be trifled with._

_That said, what I have to divulge is nothing I am proud of. It pains me to admit that my pride did pay a certain,_  small _part in not wishing to talk directly about these matters last night. Jim has been affecting my decisions and my thoughts since he walked into my life two years ago._

_I was rash, and unforgivably stupid. I haven't had the fortitude to admit that to you before now. Moriarty seems to bring out the very worst in everyone around him. His effect is damaging and lasting, and one doesn't seem to ever be truly free of it._

_He always seemed to be close by when I had business in the Department of Immigration. The other students were clearly terrified of him, even those who were in their twenties. And there's no wondering why. One of them- a stupid, obnoxious boy to be perfectly frank- had a falling out with him on his first week there; when I came around a couple of weeks later, I was told that the unfortunate boy had fallen down two flights of concrete stairs._

_Jim Moriarty doesn't make accidents happen, but he seems to be very close by when they do. Of course, I could do nothing but suspect. I wasn't there often enough to know anything concrete (excuse the pun) about his movements, except that he always made sure he was the one who brought me my coffee when I was there._

_The worst mistake I ever made was thinking that he was just a tortured genius who needed guidance. I set up a meeting with him, hoping to convince him to divert his talents into securing a place in Cambridge or Oxford, rather than terrorising everyone he came into contact with. He seemed attentive. He seemed willing. Of course I'm aware now that I had fallen for his game play from the moment I invited him into my personal life._

_People warned me to distance myself from him. It wasn't savoury in any stretch of the imagination. He was a clearly damaged fifteen-year-old, I was a twenty-two-year businessman, who was supposed to be mature enough to see when I was being duped by an emotional extortionist. Before I knew it, and I say that knowing how perfectly clichéd and inadequate a phrase it is for the weeks of mental flirtations that he lavished on me, we had crossed a line that I had never intended to take a step towards._

_I can only imagine the sense of righteous indignation you feel as you read these words, but I can assure you that I paid the price for my indiscretion. Jim punished me in ways that I hadn't even imagined existed. When he had taken all he could from me willingly, he turned immediately into the bile-spitting viper he is and turned to threats and blackmail. He wanted a permanent position in the Department of Immigration, which was ridiculous. He may have been supremely talented, but he was still a fifteen-year-old boy still in high school._

_I spent so many nights wondering just what it meant, why he had gone to such unthinkable lengths to secure something he must have known was impossible, no matter what threats he made. It took me a long time to realise that he had done it simply for the thrill. The game excited him. The act of breaking down a human being and destroying them is better than any drug to him._

_Luckily, he also has a volatile temper. That, I say with no small satisfaction, was his stumbling block. I arrived at the department one day to be told that Jim had been discharged, after he lost his temper and screamed a veritable dictionary of abuse at his supervisor after they set him some paltry task I'm sure he thought vastly beneath him. I don't know whether he's yet learnt to control his rage. I hope very much that he hasn't. The last thing the world needs is a Jim Moriarty who has learnt to suppress every weakness._

_He disappeared after that, and I learnt from my sources that he had left London altogether and gone west. I am still unable to pinpoint whether he has any living parents, though I have tracked down a brother of his to Wales. I can only imagine that Jim outgrew the need for parental or familial guidance a very long time ago. And he is far too clever to stay long in one location, after he has caused what mayhem he can._

_I am aware that this is a slight explanation, lacking in all the juicy details I'm sure you crave, but I hope you will grant me the kindness of not sharing the most shameful mistake of my life in any greater form than this. Perhaps you can begin to understand why I did what I did to you and John, or perhaps my explanation only worsens your anger. Whatever the consequences, I have finally divulged the truth to you, and I feel better for it._

_Mycroft H._

Sherlock sat slowly back in his seat. The chair gave a low growl beneath him. He tried to catch each emotion before they hurtled through him unchecked. He had to be in control of himself at this moment. He couldn't let what he had read control how he reacted to Jim.

If Mycroft had taught him anything, it was that reacting to his immediate emotions was foolish at best, and severely damaging at worst. Sherlock had not always been able to follow Mycroft's advice to its logical extreme. If he had placed his emotions in Mycroft's hands, he never would have felt anything at all.

Sherlock gave himself a quick shake. Behind him the alarm on Ben's phone started its monotonous beeping. Sherlock rearranged his chilled limbs on the chair and closed the laptop. He hadn't allowed himself to predict what his brother would have to tell him, and so he wasn't surprised by what he had read. Or maybe he was too numb to be surprised.

The thought of his prudish, pompous brother indulging in-

"Ugh." Sherlock pulled a face. "Mycroft."

Jim Moriarty had a way with Holmes boys it seemed. Moriarty knew how to play Holmes boys. What they possessed in intellect, they lacked in emotional intelligence or awareness. They were too easy to ensnare, much too easy to seduce into a game of cat and mouse.

Behind him, the beeping of Ben's phone abruptly stopped. There was the sound of covers being kicked off and then feet landing softly down onto the carpet. Sherlock glanced up at the wall above his computer; it was bathed in grey sunlight. He realised that twenty or thirty minutes must have passed while he was sitting there.

Now he had to get dressed and go to class. It seemed surreal. He now had to confront Jim with what he knew and hope- just hope- that Jim conceded his loss and backed off. But why would Jim concede now? He had too many allies. He had too much leverage. He had John.

Sherlock shook his head, massaging his forehead with his fingertips. There was really nothing else to be done. He had to at least try and make things right. Even if nothing good came of it. Even if he really had screwed things up with John forever. He had to try.

He turned around in his chair, still vaguely pondering his brother's email when his eyes fell on his roommate opposite. Ben was seated on his bed, his school shirt hanging loosely ajar. Sherlock's eyes were immediately drawn to a series of angry purpling bruises across the boy's pale abdomen. Ben's head was bowed, though it was difficult to tell whether he was looking at the marks chequering his body or not.

"Who did that?" Sherlock said, his voice sounding thin from his sleepless night.

Ben's head jerked up and he sharply drew his shirt across himself. "No one," he replied quickly. He stood and turned to the wall, doing up his buttons, his movements jerking and stiff. Sherlock suspected that the bruising over his ribs was causing him no small amount of discomfort.

"Ben, unless you haven't noticed, I'm not a stranger to mysterious injuries," Sherlock said drily. His black eye still stood as a token to that fact.

Ben stopped what he was doing, but didn't turn around.

More than one of the teachers had attempted to goad the perpetrator out of him, but Sherlock had no intention of making them feel as though they were helping, when he knew they didn't really want to know. There was evident relief when he shrugged off their attentions. They didn't want to be the replacement target for the bullies' wrath.

But whoever had attacked Ben had been more careful than Mr. Watson. Underneath Ben's school shirt the bruises were nicely hidden.

"He had it out for me from day one," Ben mumbled. He turned back to Sherlock, but was decidedly avoiding his eye. His school shirt hung limply around his hips, now buttoned and shielding Ben's bruised torso from view. "Took me too long to realise it."

He gingerly sat down on the edge of his bed, a grimace of pain flickering across his features. Sherlock watched him wryly. He had always suspected that Jim would start to trim away the unwanted excess in his team. He didn't need weaklings, he didn't need people with overly ripe morals or who would have niggling little crises of conscience. If Billy had been less valuable to him, it probably would have been snakes that wound up in his bed. As it were, Billy was too handy a bulk of physical strength to be so easily tossed aside. Ben, on the other hand, was small, and somewhat obscure. He talked and acted like the others, but so did a lot of people who wanted to draw the attention away from the fact that they weren't quite one of the boys.

"You can't let him get away with this," Sherlock said quietly, watching the boy opposite determinedly avoid his eye.

"What am I supposed to do?" Ben snapped. "If I tell anyone, they'll know it was me and it'll just make things worse. Jim isn't messing around."

"If you don't speak up, no one will," Sherlock said in a hard voice. "You're not the only person who's wellbeing is at stake here."

Ben looked at him. There was something knowing in his eyes. "John," he said. It wasn't a question.

Sherlock held his gaze. He inclined his head very slightly. "And others."

Ben was silent for a moment. Sherlock looked away and stared at the curtains still pulled across the window; out of the corner of his eye he watched the boy opposite. He got the feeling that he was selecting his words carefully and wondering whether or not he dared say them aloud.

"You," Ben said clumsily, not sounding as though he had fully intended to speak. Sherlock looked at him. Ben went a little pink around the ears. "You and John- I mean... They're all saying-"

"Who?" Sherlock said sharply. "Who's "they"?"

Ben glanced down and then back up at him, his eyes uncertain. "You know who."

"How long have they known?" Sherlock asked. He had suspected for a while that John's and his relationship was public knowledge. He hadn't mentioned it to John. He knew it would achieve little, but full-blown panic in him.

"I don't know," Ben said drily. He gently touched his ribs through the material of his shirt and gave a small wince. "They cut me out of the loop a long time ago." He gave a snort. "But I'm not blind," he said wryly, raising an eyebrow at him. "I probably knew before Jim." There was an edge of pride to his voice, which Sherlock found slightly amusing.

"We could have used an ally," he said. "John especially."

"I tried to do what I could. I wanted to help him," Ben said quietly, staring at him with dark, solemn eyes. "John's a mate. I don't care if he's a po- Uh, you know..." He swallowed, flushing a bit.

Sherlock nodded. There was silence. Outside there was the sound of doors opening, and footsteps beginning to thud down the corridor. Time was getting on. Sherlock's eyes felt taut with tiredness, but he couldn't go back to bed. He had to dress. He had to find Jim. He had to find John.

He stood up and started to gather his clothes to dress. Behind him Ben stayed where he was, watching him as he dropped his uniform into a pile on the bed. He delicately averted his eyes when Sherlock began to undress and pull on his uniform.

Sherlock sat down on the bed to do his shoes and socks, and found that Ben was still staring at him. It was clear that he hadn't said all that he wanted to say. Or needed to say.

Sherlock looked sideways at his laptop. The thought had occurred to him more than once that Mycroft's offer of help may not be unwise to accept. Mycroft was powerful, he had sway. He could probably get Harvey to listen. But after all they had been through... after all he and John had suffered, he could hardly bring himself to think of asking Mycroft to clean up his mess. It would mean admitting defeat. It would mean conceding to Jim. He couldn't.

He owed John so much. He owed his brother so much. He wouldn't let anyone else get hurt on his behalf. Not John, not Mycroft, not Ben. This was his fight. Jim wanted him.

"Sherlock."

He looked at Ben. He was very pale; his hands were both clutching his ribs. "Look. I... I think you should get out of here."

"What?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

"Jim... and the others..." Ben his lip with a wince, clutching his stomach tighter. "I don't think you understand what they're capable of."

Sherlock laughed hollowly. "I know exactly what Moriarty is capable of."

"Then you should take John and go," Ben said. "He hates him. He hates John. I think... I think he might try and..." He swallowed dryly. "I think he might try and hurt him real badly."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock said quietly, after a pause. "If we leave, you'll take the fall for this."

Ben closed his eyes and opened them again. Sherlock realised his hands were shaking. "I know," he said, in barely more than a whisper.

"Don't be scared of him," Sherlock said shortly, standing. "He's a bully. He's a coward."

"Scared?" Ben said, with a shrill, bitter laugh. "I'm fucking shitting myself. And you should be too. He's after you, Holmes."

Sherlock sniffed softly. "Then let him come. I'll be ready for him this time."

He walked across to the door.

"Where are you going?" Ben cried.

"To find Jim," Sherlock said, and he walked out.

\--

The room was silent for three or four minutes. Ben stared at the opposite wall, his stomach clenching with the pain of the bruises. He had tried. No one could say he hadn't tried. He'd risked another kicking for what he'd done. But no one could say he had stood by and let it happen. No one could say he was a coward. He'd probably end up dead too.

There was a deafening smash, as the door was thrown against the wall. Ben was met with the large, sulky-faced figure of Billy in the doorway.

"Haven't you ever heard of subtlety you fucking moron?" Ben bristled, as the boy let himself in and slammed the door behind him.

"Weren't my job to get rid of the fag," Billy retorted. "If Holmes turns up before I get out, it'll be you who gets the blame." He gave an ugly, leering grin and then turned towards Sherlock's vacated desk. The laptop was closed and next to it, his phone was lying idly by, left behind by Sherlock in his haste.

Billy picked it up, turning back to him with a satisfied smirk. "Well, at least you didn't screw this up." He slipped the phone into his pocket. "Come on. Jim wants to see you."

Ben swallowed. "Why?" He folded his hands across his stomach.

"He just wants to," Billy retorted. "Hurry up."

Ben couldn't think of anything he wanted to do less than face Jim so soon after his humiliation, but he knew he had no choice. He grudgingly got up from the bed and followed Billy out of the room. The larger boy carried himself with a smug sort of satisfaction. Ever since he had been brought to heel by Jim's fire ants, he had become his right-hand man, right after Marty of course. Jim made him feel even more powerful and superior. In a way he was worse than Marty. Marty was crippled by his desperation for Jim's approval; Billy was viciously careless of everyone and anyone's opinion.

The corridor was full of students slowly trudging to class. Billy led him down to the common room, cutting a swathe through the other students with his voluminous bulk. Ben was glad for Billy's slow, trudging pace; his ribs were aching, and it hurt to walk.

The common room door was closed and Billy barged right in, not waiting to hold the door open for Ben. Ben narrowly missed getting smacked in the face.

He slowly edged in behind him. His eyes immediately fell on Jim, sitting on the table usually reserved for poker with one leg propped up on the other and his head tilted to the side. Marty was leaning next to him, arms crossed and his face stony.

Jim looked up immediately when they entered. "You've got it?" he said sharply.

Billy lumbered forward, sticking a pudgy hand in his pocket. He yanked the phone out and held it out for Jim, who snatched it with almost violent eagerness.

His face brightened sickeningly as he held it up to his eyes. "Excellent," he said softly. He looked past Billy to where Ben was standing. "I trust you didn't have much trouble getting it off him?"

Ben shook his head. "No," he said shortly. It gave him satisfaction to think that he had defied him, had warned Sherlock when he should have been leading him further into Jim's trap.

"Good," Jim purred. His lips jerked into his puppet-like smile. "Everything is in motion now."

"What are we going to do?" Marty asked sullenly.

Jim didn't look at him; he was fingering something in his trouser pocket and gently stroking his thumb over Sherlock's phone. "How many times do I have to tell you?" he growled. "I know you're only asking to be obtuse. Or are you just desperate for attention?"

Marty flushed and looked away. Billy smirked.

Jim pulled his hand out of his pocket. He was grasping the phone he'd already stolen from John. Ben stared at them. He had both now. He was fairly confident he knew what Jim intended to do. Jim began to text on both phones at the same time, using two pale, well-trained thumbs to dart across the keypads.

There was a small, poisonous smirk playing on his lips as he texted. Marty's eyes kept darting towards him. Billy's face was blank and furrowed. Ben doubted whether what Jim intended could have penetrated the boy's thick head if he had spent hours trying to explain it.

At length, he lowered both phones, his smirk widening a fraction. "Done," he said, with relish. He jerked his head towards Marty, holding out the hand with John's phone in it. "Make sure John gets this back. I don't care what you have to do."

Marty took the phone with no small amount of visible reluctance. Jim barely looked at him; his eyes were still fixed on Sherlock's. He ran the pads of his fingers up and down the edge of it, stroking it and almost caressing it. Ben felt like he was watching something private, and slightly disturbing. Jim handled it almost tenderly.

"John's birthday... How pathetically predictable," he said softly. He finally looked up at them. "Never use dates as passwords. It never ends well, boys." He slid the phone into his jeans pocket, where it sat snugly against his hip. He looked narrowly at Marty. "Still here? What are you waiting for? Directions?"

Marty shrugged and turned to leave. Jim watched him go, his eyebrows raised disdainfully. Ben couldn't feel much satisfaction at Marty's abuse. Marty was the least of his concerns now.

When Marty was gone, Jim straightened up from the table, one hand lingering near the bulge of Sherlock's phone in his pocket. Ben could see Billy out of the corner of his eye, staring in a bovine manner at his master. Jim looked between them, the sharklike smile playing on his lips again.

"The time's come, boys," he said, his voice misleadingly calm. His eyes were filled with something feverish and almost manic. There were tiny dots of perspiration on his forehead. He looked at Ben. "Are you with us, Greer?"

Ben swallowed with difficulty. His throat felt very dry. What choice did he have? How could he say no? He knew what happened to people who said 'no' to Jim Moriarty. His ribs gave a corroborating twinge under his shirt.

Jim's eyes were coldly boring into him. He must have known that he was almost shitting himself. The smug bastard. He loved terrifying people. He knew what he could do to them.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, I am." He felt sick. He felt like he had just signed his own death warrant.

Jim laughed hollowly. "Good. We can't have any little chinks in the chain, can we now?" He rubbed the lump of Sherlock's phone in his pocket and gave an almost undetectable shiver.

"Should I take that back to Holmes?" Billy grunted, nodding.

Jim almost recoiled, narrowing his eyes at the larger boy. "No!" he snapped. "It requires delicacy, you inept imbecile." The sudden poison in his tone suggested he was more on edge than he seemed.

Seconds later he seemed to forcefully relax his features. He smiled, with a tiny shake of his head. "No... you just stay here." His eyes darted sharply across to Ben. "Both of you. I'll handle it from here. You just be ready."

"Ready for what?" Ben asked, conscious of the tremor in his voice.

Jim walked across to the door, humming softly to himself. Billy and Ben both edged around to watch him. At the door, he paused and turned to flash them an unnerving smirk.

"The show."

\--

John saw no point in going to class. He had never been less motivated. He had never wanted to give up so desperately. He had had enough.

He changed into jeans and a t-shirt, and then went and told Mr. Blake that he was ill. Blake had barely looked at him before giving him permission. He had a thousand other things to attend to, and John wasn't a problematic student or known for skiving off, so it was almost a given.

John walked back to his dorm room, keeping his eyes on the floor as he walked. He didn't want to have to make eye contact with any of his classmates. He hated them. Every single one of them. He hated how they had stood by and watched while Jim had destroyed him and Sherlock, he hated their cowardice, he hated their ignorance.

When he had been with Sherlock, it had been easy to ignore the misery of what reality at Redverse was. He felt like his oxygen had been cut off, and he was deep under water. And alone.

"John!"

He had jerked around before he could stop himself. To his surprise, he found Marty jogging up to meet him. He glanced around. People were milling up and down the corridor either side of him. It was the first time Marty had talked to him in public for weeks.

"Marty?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

Before he could stop it, hot, sickly antipathy had washed over him. The last time he had seen Marty, he had just helped beat him to a tender pulp. John had bruises all over his torso and thighs. They had left his face and arms conspicuously bare.

"What?" he said brusquely, when Marty came to a stop in front of him.

His brassy blonde hair was ruffled and he looked slightly pink. He gave a small and obviously forced smile.

"I found something of yours," he said, in an unnatural, bright tone.

John stared. He didn't know what kind of trick he was pulling. He felt torn between getting ready to defend himself, and just walking away. He would have liked nothing better than to punch Marty right in his smug, stupid face, but he was held back by the thought that if he started on that road he might find himself exactly like Marty one day.

Marty's expression faltered an inch. People were darting glances at them as they passed. John got the feeling that they were hoping a fight might break out. But instead, Marty dipped a hand into his jumper pocket and pulled out a phone.

It took only a split second for John to recognise it. "Where did you find that?" he said sharply, snatching for it.

Marty let him take it, though John more than half expected him to yank it out of his grasp. John turned it over in his hands, confused and suspicious. It looked undamaged. There were no scratches, though there were a series of thick smeary smudges across the screen.

"It still works fine," Marty said, making John jump.

He looked at him, still uncertain of what his game was. John decided against turning it on in the corridor. He had a wary feeling that there would be something incriminating beyond the blank screen.

"So you just found this lying around, did you?" John said in a hard voice. "It's been missing for ages."

A flash of annoyance passed harshly across Marty's face. "Is that the thanks I get?" he snapped. "It was just lying on a desk in an empty classroom, alright?"

John scoffed, earning himself more looks from the passersby. "Yeah, I'm sure this is your good deed for the day," he retorted.

Marty's eyes kept darting towards the phone. "Aren't you going to check everything's still in there?"

"Yeah, later," John said. "I don't feel well and I'm going to bed."

He turned on his heel and left Marty standing in the corridor behind him. In reality, he was burning to turn it on and hunt through it. There was nothing incriminating in there. He deleted all of Sherlock's texts. He didn't have anything to hide. But that did not quiet his anxiety

As soon as he was in the privacy and comparative quiet of his room, he sat at his desk and eagerly turned it on. The screen lit up and revealed the same innocuous stretch of beach that had been there the last time he had set eyes on it. His heart quietened the tiniest of fractions in his chest. He had had nightmarish visions of what he might find. In fact he was more than slightly surprised at finding it undamaged- so far.

The next thing that met his eyes was that he had over ten text messages waiting for him. He opened his inbox, his heart beginning to thump with renewed vigour. He had three from Harriet, five from Ben, and two from an unnamed number that he knew was Sherlock's.

He hastily panned through Ben's and Harriet's. There was nothing interesting there. Harriet was asking him about school and about their parents and if he had opened his mother's Christmas present yet, because she kept asking Harriet why he hadn't called to say 'thank you'. Ben's were all about football practice.

He stared at Sherlock's number and swallowed. He had tried not to think about him since he had come barging into his room the day before. He hated the part of him that had hoped that Sherlock would beg him to take him back. He knew it was wishful thinking. Sherlock was far too proud and too stubborn to beg.

John pressed a trembling thumb down against Sherlock's number and before he could think twice, both messages and appeared. The oldest was simply: "where are you?", sent a week beforehand. John's eyes trailed up to the latest one. He started. It had been sent barely half an hour beforehand.

_"Will you meet me in the dorm bathroom?"_

John read it over and over. He couldn't believe it. He didn't dare believe it, though his mind had already hurtled forward to meeting Sherlock, hearing Sherlock's apology, forgiving him, taking him in his arms, kissing him-

"Stop it," he snapped at himself.

He closed his eyes with an agitated breath out. He wanted to go. God knew he wanted to. He had been hollow since his and Sherlock's breakup. He had been numb. He wasn't happy. But he was right. Every relationship book in history said it was only fools and weaklings who stayed with someone who had strayed. He was doing the right thing. Shame that it felt so... wrong.

He dropped his phone onto the desk. He didn't know how long Sherlock would wait. Knowing him, not long. He was impatient at the best of times. John probably had another twenty minutes at most to get down there, if he intended to.

John stood and walked across to the mirror fastened to the back of his door. He gave himself a cautionary glance over. His hair was a mess and he looked tired and peaky.

He stared at himself for a moment and then reached for the door. He was going to go. He had to. He needed to at least hear what Sherlock had to say. He'd never forgive himself if he didn't.

The dorms were now almost empty. Class was in little over five minutes and only the very laziest of stragglers were left. John could feel his apprehension mounting as he walked. It was difficult not to hope that at the end of this corridor Sherlock was waiting to beg his forgiveness and hold him. John wanted to be held again. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to feel Sherlock against him.

He gave himself a minute shake. He was getting way ahead of himself. Knowing Sherlock, it would be something completely off-the-wall and completely disappointing. Maybe he wanted to continue their argument from the day before. John had called him a "fucking wanker". It wasn't the first time he had wanted to, and he wasn't going to deny that it felt good. It felt good to tell Sherlock exactly what he thought of him. You could do that in arguments. It was something that normal conversations didn't allow. Screaming something at someone suddenly made it forgivable.

He reached the bathrooms and almost screeched to a halt outside. He flattened his hair, panting slightly and smoothed his clothes.

It was gloomy and cold inside. It smelt like damp and deodorant. The rows of showers were eerily quiet and deserted. Across the opposite wall were high, glazed windows. John stared around, starting to fear he was too late.

"Sherlock?" he said uncertainly, his eyes adjusting poorly to the dimness.

A sudden explosion of noise paralysed him into inaction. Hands were suddenly grasping roughly at his clothes and face. He flinched, expecting punches, but they did not come. Instead his mouth was covered, his arms were pulled uncomfortably behind his back. His head was yanked back.

The last thought that filtered through his mind, as he stared up at Marty's smirking figure, framed by the brilliant light of the doorway, was how angry Sherlock would be with him for his foolishness.

\--

Sherlock was the first to arrive outside the home room. He was the last one outside when Ms. Stone opened the door at a quarter past eight, and went to fetch the roll from the staff room. He was waiting for Jim, but Jim was conspicuously absent. He wasn't the only one. Marty, Billy and, most disturbingly, John also did not appear.

By the time Ms. Stone appeared again, Sherlock was beginning to think he had made a mistake. He was beginning to think that he had misconstrued Ben's warnings.

"What are you waiting for, Holmes?"

Sherlock looked up at Ms. Stone's sour expression. She was holding the door open with one hand, a pile of folders pressed to the chest of her blue knitted cardigan with the other.

Sherlock straightened up from the bag racks and, without another glance at his teacher, marched past her and back towards the dorms.

"Mr. Holmes!" came Ms. Stone's shrill, indignant voice behind him.

Sherlock wheeled around the corner and doubled his speed until he was almost sprinting. What had begun as a germ of suspicion was quickly becoming full-blown panic.

He almost lost his balance as he threw himself around the next corner and took the steps to the dorms two at a time. He burst through the doors, ignoring the pain of them slamming against his thigh.

He stopped short in his tracks. Ten feet in front of him, standing alone in the deserted corridor was a small, dark figure, his back to him.

Sherlock stayed where he was, his heart throbbing rapidly and gently against his shirt. "Looking for someone?" he called through gritted teeth.

Jim turned. Even from where he was standing, Sherlock could see the smile playing on his lips. "Come out to play, have you?"

Sherlock walked up to meet him. His hands were shaking, and he didn't completely trust himself not to do something rash. He felt like he was walking into a trap, or perhaps he already had.

"Where's John?" he said, coming to a halt in front of the smaller boy. He kept his voice level. Jim fed on fraught emotions; Sherlock wouldn't give him the advantage of smelling out his fear.

"Where indeed?" Jim replied sweetly. "Catch!"

He threw something at him and by sheer instinct, Sherlock caught it. "What are you doing with this?" he said, staring at his phone.

Jim walked around him, hands buried deep in his pockets. "I was intending to see if you were really stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice."

Sherlock didn't respond; he kept his eyes fixed on Moriarty while he circled like a vulture, eyes sharp and alert, despite his relaxed facial features.

"Where John is concerned, you have a terrible blind spot, Sherlock," Jim said, grinning at him with sharp, white teeth. "You're rather...  _in the dark_ , shall we say?"

Sherlock immediately knew what he was talking about. "You were going to try and lure me somewhere?" he said abruptly. "Why?"

"Haven't you worked it out yet?" Jim breathed, his voice close to Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock whirled around to face him. "Where are your cronies?" he snapped. "Where's John? What have you done?"

"There you go again," Jim said, coming to a halt in front of him and rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. "John, John, John. You bore me."

"Tell me where he is," Sherlock said quietly, his fists curled tightly beside him.

"Or what?" Jim said, quirking an eyebrow.

Sherlock laughed in a short, bitter breath. "You really are a sick bastard."

Jim smirked. "Thank you. I try. Think of what I'll be capable of in five years? Ten? And you could have shared in it with me. Just think."

"I don't want to hurt people," Sherlock snapped.

"No, but you don't really want to help them either," Jim retorted, cocking his head to the side. "You'll be alone for the rest of your life, Sherlock." He stopped, smoothing his uniform with an almost offhand motion. "You know it's true. You've already lost John. Who else will put up with you?"

"I haven't lost John," Sherlock said coldly. "Not yet."

"Haven't you?" Jim said, his smirk widening. "Where is he then, Sherlock? If he's not  _lost_?"

Sherlock imagined sending a fist right into that alabaster complexion. He could almost see the explosion of scarlet blood across his delicate features. He could see his nose breaking, his lip splitting, the bruises appearing on his smooth, white flesh. He could almost feel the ache of the impact.

"I'm not my brother," Sherlock replied. "And I'm not letting you do this."

If Jim was surprised, it didn't show on his face. He cocked his head a little further to the side. "So big brother finally told you the story?" He laughed. "I'm surprised it took him so long. But I guess his pride was a little...  _bruised_  after that romp." His eyes glinted spitefully.

"If you started this game thinking you were playing someone just like Mycroft, you made a grave error," Sherlock growled. "I have someone to fight for." He sneered. "And I don't want you. I never have."

The furious flush that came across Jim's features filled Sherlock with satisfaction, but he'd finished playing.

"Where is he?" he said in a low voice.

"I hope the boys haven't started without me," Jim said, examining his nails. "I hate to miss all the fun. But they're rather worked up. Seems they have it in their heads that he's a "dirty, little faggot"." He gave a trilling laugh. "Can't imagine where they got-"

Sherlock took a step towards him and pushed him forcefully back against the wall with one hand against his chest. "Tell me," he said softly, eyes fixed on Jim's.

"Check your inbox," Jim wheezed, jerking his head at the phone in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock stared at him, not able to believe he had ever hated someone more than he had hated Jim Moriarty. Hatred was an irrational and tiring emotion. No logical person spent energy on hatred if they could help it, but sometimes illogical antipathy took over all attempts to be rational. Where John was concerned, Sherlock's irrationality seemed to flare up constantly.

"Go on," Jim said, seeming unruffled by Sherlock's force.

Sherlock had no option. He checked his phone inbox. Sure enough, there was one text message from John. He hastily read it, his hand loosening on Jim's shirt.

He immediately turned and began running towards the dormitory bathrooms. Behind him he could hear Jim laughing. He was close behind him. He wanted to experience every shade of Sherlock's panic.

Sherlock felt his phone slip from his grip, but he didn't slow his pace. Behind him he heard it hit the carpet with a low thud.

"Funny how one's priorities change isn't it, Sherlock?" Jim called after him.

The door of the bathroom was closed. For as long as Sherlock had been at Redverse, he didn't ever remember seeing the door closed.

Sherlock pushed it open. His heart felt like it was threatening to present itself to the world it was so high in his throat. Behind him he could hear Jim's excited, exerted panting.

For a moment he saw nothing; his eyes were foggy from the sudden gloom. Then, in a sickly rush, he saw everything.

John was kneeling, his head bowed. Above him were four hulking figures. Billy and Marty were among them. John looked small, very small and as fragile as glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Jim appear beside him. "Looks like we're just in time," he said breathlessly.

There were sneering titters from around John. Billy gave him a rough prod with his foot. John looked up blearily. One of his eyes was violently red.

"Which one of you-" Sherlock spat, before he could stop himself.

Billy laughed loudest, elbowing his neighbour and guffawing like a witless chimp. Sherlock looked sharply at Jim. His face was pink with pleasure. "Play nice, Sherlock," he said, pouting at him.

He strolled across to where John was crouched. He nudged John's thigh.

"Stand him up," he ordered them.

Billy hastened to obey. He gripped John under both arms and yanked him up. John looked unsteady on his legs, but he didn't stumble.

"Well?" Jim snapped. "Are you going to hold him or not? Do I have to talk you through  _everything?"_ His eyes settled on Marty. "Hester. Don't just stand there, you moron."

Marty wrapped a hand around the collar of John's shirt, yanking him roughly backwards. With the other hand he took a clump of his hair, so that his head was snapped violently back. His throat was bare and vulnerable. Sherlock could see his Adam's apple trembling.

Jim spun around. "Honestly," he said, rolling his eyes in an amiable nature at Sherlock.

Sherlock kept his eyes on Marty. It would have been almost indiscernible if he hadn't been holding John's head back, but it was clear that he was trembling.

"What now?" Sherlock asked, almost taken aback by his own calmness.

"That's completely up to you," Jim replied. "What would you like to see us do to little Johnny here?"

He turned, smiling to his cronies. All of them were wearing cruel, stupid grins of their own. Except for Marty, who's eyes were fixed on the back of John's head.

Sherlock watched John. He could barely see his face, so far was it pulled back by Marty, but he seemed calm. His breathing was slow and regular, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Sherlock wanted to break every one of Marty's fingers.

"You shouldn't pretend to be something you're not, Sherlock," Jim said, circling him again.

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Sherlock spat. "Pretending, tricking, scheming. You're pathetic."

Jim's eyes burned. "Not so pathetic I convinced myself I'm in love just so I can pretend to feel something." He looked across at John, his mouth twisting cruelly. "You know that now, John, don't you? You know that Sherlock never truly  _loved_  you. He's incapable of love. Why else would he betray you?"

All of the boys except Marty looked puzzled. It was clear that they had been convinced this was some sort of cleansing mission to get rid of faggots; the details were not known or important to them.

Jim halted in front of Sherlock, so close he could smell his cologne. "Leave," he breathed. "Leave and this doesn't have to go any further."

"Leave?" Sherlock said numbly, tearing his eyes from John's vulnerable figure to fix on Jim.

"You know what I want," Jim said softly. "Simply concede and this can be over."

Sherlock laughed shortly. "Is that all?"

"No, not all," Jim snapped. "Because I will follow you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will follow and I will beat you again and again... and  _again_." His breath dipped into barely more than a raw whisper.

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I won't leave," he breathed.

Jim shrugged and turned his head towards John. He crooked a finger. "Go ahead then, boys. Sherlock clearly doesn't care all that much about what happens to him."

Sherlock wanted to cry out, but the sound was silenced by shock. John was thrown down against the dirty bathroom tiles and three sets of hands and three sets of feet began a vicious assault on his body. John screamed out.

Marty backed away from the group, an ugly, torn expression on his face. Jim's head jerked towards him, but he said nothing.

"Stop!" Sherlock roared, throwing himself down across John's body.

Punches hit him in his back, his ribs, his tailbone. The pain barely registered. Beneath him, John was trembling violently in his arms.

Behind him he heard Jim repeat his cry, and abruptly the assault stopped. Around him he could blearily make out a ring of legs and feet. John was breathing hollowly beneath him.

"Get him up!" Jim snarled.

Arms grasped Sherlock roughly, and he was torn away from John's fallen body. He was dragged away to the nearest sink and held there, hands painfully grasping his shirt and hair. Through the tarnished mirror he could see Marty standing far back from the others, breathing like a frightened animal.

Jim was walking towards him. Everything about his figure, his stride telling of extreme anger. He halted in front of Marty, the expression on his face an ugly combination of disgust and contempt.

"What's the matter, Marty?" he spat poisonously. "Is the reality just a bit too much for you?"

Sherlock struggled fruitlessly to turn around, but his assailants held fast onto him. He could only watch through the mirror, as Marty flushed a fierce shade of scarlet. John was still on the floor, held down by Billy. Through the mirror Sherlock met his eye.

John didn't looked entirely lucid, but he looked at Sherlock with what he could only describe as understanding: they had to get out of here.

"Look at me," Jim snarled. He was at least a head shorter than Marty, but Marty was cowering like he was being threatened at knife point. "What's the matter with you?"

There was silence. It was thick and ringing. Sherlock didn't even try and struggle against the hands holding him. Everyone in the room seemed to be watching Marty and waiting for what would happen next.

Marty looked up, fixing his pale eyes on Jim. "Nothing."

Jim stared at him narrowly for a moment and then stepped back. He jerked his head at John. "Then prove it."

Sherlock tried to wrench himself free, but he succeeded only in almost losing a huge chunk of his hair. "Keep the fuck away from him!" he spat.

No one paid any attention to him. Billy backed away from John's crumpled figure, grinning obscenely. The two boys holding Sherlock began to egg him on with loud, obnoxious catcalls. Marty looked rooted to the spot. There was no colour left in his face.

"What are you waiting for?" Jim cooed at him.

Marty looked from John to Jim. His eyes narrowed. "No," he said. His voice was barely audible over the cacophony of echoes inside the enclosed confine of the bathroom.

The sudden eclipse of sound was almost farcical. Sherlock could hear the breathing of every person in the room. He watched as Jim's facial expression seemed to slacken.

"What?" he said softly.

Marty stared defiantly at him, his evident terror only make his disobedience the more compulsive to watch. "You think I'm going to do your dirty work?" He cast a disdainful glance over the rest of the assembly. "I'm not as stupid as those fuckers."

Billy stirred angrily. "Shut up, Marty."

Jim raised a hand, his eyes not shifting from Marty's face. "Shush." He lowered it slowly. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To teach a couple of filthy, little shirt-lifters a lesson? I've heard all your little fantasies on that subject, Marty. You can't tell me I'm wrong."

Marty flushed. "You're one of them," he breathed.

Sherlock looked from Marty to John. He was crouched on one knee, and looked suddenly alert. Above him Billy was visibly transfixed by Marty and Jim, barely paying the slightest attention to his charge below.

"Look who's talking," Jim replied quietly, every word dripping with contemptuous venom. "I know what you think. You think you have some sort of special sway over me."

The hands gripping Sherlock's clothes had noticeably become looser. He could move with greater ease, though he couldn't get his head completely free from the grasp on his hair.

"You're pathetic," Jim said, with cold precision. "A parasite out for whatever he can get."

"Liar," Marty hissed. One of his hands gripped at Jim's shirt.

Jim shoved him away with a shrill laugh. "Don't touch me. Why do you think I've suffered you all this time? You helped me get what I wanted." He smirked cruelly. "Though of course I did enjoy all those nights of ours alone."

The others were looking very much confused now. It was obvious that they were rapidly being left behind. It was also obvious that they had never realised the full extent of their leader's relationship with Marty.

"Shut up," Marty snarled, a vein beginning to throb dangerously in his jaw.

"What are you going to do?" Jim retorted. "Sulk at me? Did you really think I was in love with you? Oh, please tell me you did. It would be the most delicious joke: me in love with a crude, grasping nobody like you-"

There was a crack like a whip and all hell suddenly broke loose. Sherlock's sentinels simultaneously let go of him, finally allowing him to turn around and see the mayhem with his own eyes. Billy was stumbling stupidly towards the tangled mass of limbs that was Marty and Jim on the bathroom tiles.

Marty was attacking Jim with animal ferocity, seeming not content with punching him, but seeming intent on gouging his eyes out.

It wasn't until someone gave a shout of "Where is he!" that Sherlock looked to where John had been kneeling and realised he was gone. Billy stared around wildly, swearing and seeming torn as to whether to run after him or stay and try and wrench Marty off Jim's bleeding figure.

"Go after him!" he bellowed at the two boys clinging loosely and ineffectively onto Sherlock. They didn't obey, seeming entranced by the scene in front of them.

Sherlock closed his eyes and prayed for the first time in his life that John would get to someone in time.

\--

John ran faster than he had ever run in his life. His whole body felt like it was on fire, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Sherlock was alone and he needed help. John forced himself to quicken his pace to the point where he was almost dizzy.

He didn't even know where he was going. He just had to find a teacher. Any teacher. Anyone. Just  _someone._  He hurtled along corridors, and around corners, barely knowing what direction he was going in. His body seemed to have decided automatically where he should go.

He barely realised where he was until he was barging through the doors of the administration building. He stopped with a terrific screech of rubber soles on brick and doubled over to catch his breath.

"John?"

He jerked upright at the familiar voice. His head was spinning. He must have been hallucinating.

"Mycroft?" he croaked.

Sherlock's brother was standing near the receptionist's desk, an umbrella hanging on one arm. He looked bewildered. The receptionist was watching John open-mouthed, her eyes darting between him and Mycroft.

"John, what is it?" he said sharply, seeming immediately to realise that something was very wrong.

"Sherlock..." John gasped, clutching his ribs. "Mycroft, he's... in trouble."

Mycroft had jerked into action before the last syllable was out of John's mouth. John twisted and hurtled after him, ignoring the pain that erupted in his legs and stomach.

Mycroft's long legs gave him an undeniable advantage, but John was determined not to be left behind. His mind was churning with the fear of what might be done to Sherlock in his absence. He felt almost sick with terror at what they'd find.

"Where is he?" Mycroft snapped at him, stopping for a second, as they burst out of the admin doors together.

"Follow me," John gasped.

He led Mycroft through the empty corridors back towards the dorms, never stopping and never looking back. He could hear Mycroft's long, soft steps behind him and he didn't dare slow his pace even a fraction.

He pushed the dorm doors open with both hands and heard Mycroft catch them behind him. The corridor in front of him seemed longer than it had ever seemed before. His head was a stew pot of fear and exhaustion, both fighting for dominance over his abused body.

They reached the bathroom and forced the door open together. John stared desperately around the interior and his eyes fell immediately on a motionless figure lying limp against the far wall.

"Sherlock!" he breathed, flinging himself towards him.

Mycroft followed him, staring around every angle and corner of the room. The others had disappeared. They had escaped.

John fell onto his knees in front of Sherlock. His head lolled back. He seemed barely conscious. His face was badly swollen. Breathing haggardly, John's eyes trailed down to where his shirt had been torn open, the buttons hanging from mere threads or ripped off completely.

Behind him he heard Mycroft give a sharp intake of breath.

On Sherlock's smooth, pale skin a red marker had adorned the letters "JM" in crude, ugly letters. It looked like blood. John gently touched it, his throat aching.

Sherlock jerked at his touch, his eyes flickering very slightly. John tugged the shirt across him and stood, turning to Mycroft. "Come on. We need to get him out of here."

_End of Chapter Twenty-Nine_


	30. Chapter 30

The journey was a blur. That was the only way John could describe it. Even between two of them Sherlock's body was heavy and awkward to manoeuvre. And all the way to the sick bay, John's heart was beating like a sledgehammer against his ribs, painful and anxious. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jim's garish, obscene scrawl, the sneering smear of red to match the blood gathered at both his nostrils and lips.

Mycroft stared directly ahead, his face grim and ashen, both arms clinging with surprising strength to his brother's torso. Sherlock lolled in and out of consciousness, his head lolling onto John's shoulder, his feet tripping over themselves. Sometimes he mumbled incoherently in a dazed, thin voice.

The sick bay was deserted, but there was a light coming from behind the frosted glass of the nurse's door. John had been in there more often than the average Redverse student, because of various football injuries. It smelt permanently of disinfectant, sometimes so strong it made his eyes water. And the nurse who presided over it was a stern, no-nonsense, matronly sort of woman in her fifties, who applied band-aids and antiseptic cream with methodical precision. John knew in his gut that she would want Harvey involved. And he was later proven right.

Sherlock was deposited on the bed closest to the nurse's office, while she looked him over with a grim frown. Mycroft looked uncharacteristically pale, his lips pinched and thin. John's fingers itched to brush back the stray strands of hair from Sherlock's face, but he didn't dare to in front of the nurse.

No sooner had she glanced Sherlock's injuries over had she rung for Harvey. Soon after, Mycroft disappeared, without a word to either of them. John barely noticed. He sunk into the chair beside Sherlock's bed and stared at his still figure. He didn't know if he could face staring down Mr. Harvey in a state of what felt like catatonic tiredness. He wanted to curl up beside Sherlock and hold his battered body to him and sleep.

In the nurse's office he could hear her low, serious voice like a quiet buzz of insects. He couldn't make out the words, and he didn't try to. His head throbbed, and a low, tinny ringing had erupted in his ears that seemed to come from deep inside his brain.

From the bed Sherlock gave a soft whimper, but did not stir. John looked slowly over his shoulder to where he could see the nurse's solid silhouette behind the frosted glass door. Drawing in a slightly trembling breath, he reached a hand across and held it against Sherlock's forehead. It felt clammy and warm. From between the slits of his eyelids he could see a sliver of grey, blank and unresponsive to John's touch. Fingers trembling gently, he brushed Sherlock's dark fringe aside.

If it hadn't been for the bruises marring he skin, he could have been asleep. They were forming in varying shades of black, purple and yellow. He could have guessed where every blow had fallen: one on the temple, one at the corner of his mouth, one on his left cheekbone. And the slightly faded outline of the bruise around his eye. He was battered. He was broken. But still beautiful.

He heard the office door open and he jerked back from Sherlock's bed. He heard the nurse's sensible loafers on the tiled floor behind him. She appeared beside Sherlock, fussing with his pillows and looking him over with a taut frown.

"You want to tell me how this happened?" she said curtly, not looking at John. "Mr. Harvey will be coming to see you tomorrow to ask you all about it."

John swallowed, which did nothing to soothe his aching throat. "I... he..." He broke off, rolling the words around in his tacky, dry mouth. "Nothing. Just an accident."

The nurse raised her eyebrows at him, but said nothing. John watched her plump up Sherlock's pillows and carefully fit them under his head, and then set about positioning him more comfortably on the bed. John couldn't help a rush of gratitude for her brisk, unobtrusive manner. It was calming, like a cold hand to his hot, aching forehead.

His tiredness deepened almost into exhaustion. He could have fallen asleep quite happily sitting up, but after a few minutes the nurse turned towards him.

"You could fetch his pyjamas for me, if you know where to find them."

John certainly did know. He wondered vaguely if the nurse knew anything about his and Sherlock's relationship. He doubted it. He didn't see how she would, but there was something almost suggestive about asking him to fetch something so personal.

But he mostly suspected that she had given him the task to get rid of him while she tended to Sherlock's injuries. She would want to make sure that she didn't have to call a doctor in, that none of it was serious. Words like "broken bones" and "internal bleeding" flashed through John's mind.

"Go on now, dear," she said briskly, in what he expected was the kindliest tone of voice she was capable of. "He can't sleep in his clothes, can he?" She looked him over critically. "And you look like you could use some patching up as well."

John nodded and rose to do as he was told. He met no one on his way to or back from the dorms. Sherlock's room was unlocked and empty. He looked from Ben's neatly made bed, to the nest of sheets strewn across Sherlock's.

He felt an uncomfortable prickling behind his eyes, but hurried to carry out his task. He rooted through all of Sherlock's dishevelled drawers before he finally found a pair of faded chequered boxers and a paisley pyjama shirt. He tucked both under his arm and cast one last look around the room.

Sherlock's laptop had been set to sleep; he could see the standby button flashing slowly on and off. A pile of schoolbooks were lying messily on the floor beside his bed. He could have just left moments before. He could have just gone to the bathroom, or to class. Any minute he could walk through that door, untouched and unbruised and smiling in surprise when he saw John standing there in the middle of his room.

When he arrived back at the sick bay, the smell of disinfectant seemed to have strengthened, if that was even possible. The nurse was leaning over Sherlock's motionless figure, dabbing his facial cuts with pink liquid from a clear glass bottle. His shirt was open and John could see a set of bruises dotting his chest and ribs. It made his stomach clench sickeningly. Sherlock had tried to defend him. He had tried to protect him.

"You can dress him in a moment."

"What?" John said, staring at the nurse's back.

"When I've finished patching him up, you can get him into his pyjamas," she replied over her shoulder, not looking up. "I'll pull the hangings."

John's heart gave what he could only describe as a wobble. "Ok," he croaked. He stared blankly around the sick bay. Mycroft was still not back.

He watched the nurse work in silence. She seemed to have infinite patience in her work. She located each of Sherlock's cuts, even the tiniest one behind his ear or under his eyebrow and tended to it. John was glad Sherlock wasn't awake to feel the sting of Dettol on each of his tender wounds.

"There we go," she said at length, bringing John out of an almost dreamlike state. She stood and turned to him. She had a handful of bloodied cotton wool. "He needs rest." She looked at him sternly, as though she suspected he may have a rock concert in mind. "You can stay, but only if you sit quietly."

John nodded, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. His head had lolled to one side, his mouth was very slightly open and a trickle of disinfectant rolled down his cheek from a cut in the corner of his eye. It looked like a teardrop.

"Do you want me to dress him... completely?" John said, begging himself not to go red.

The nurse raised her eyebrows. "If you don't mind."

Then she was gone, and John was alone with Sherlock's body and his pyjamas. He could only describe his movement towards the bed as a creep. He thought at any moment Sherlock would awaken, but he didn't. He was still. Very still. Not a single one of his fingers twitched, his chest barely seemed to rise when he breathed. It was the stillest John had ever seen a person. It was almost corpselike.

His body gave an uncomfortable shudder and he thrust away the thought, as he leant over to tug away Sherlock's shirt away. He expected him to wake at every touch and movement, but Sherlock was limp and pliable as a ragdoll.

It made John's job somewhat awkward. He had never experienced having someone's total and unrestrained weight on him. It made undressing him very difficult, but it also gave John an opportunity to become intimately acquainted with all of the marks left on Sherlock's body. Every bruise, every cut filled John with a frighteningly intense rage. He would never forgive Jim for what he had done.

Sherlock's head lolled onto his shoulder, and both of his nostrils were suddenly full of the smell of his hair.

John froze in his seat, still in the motion of struggling Sherlock into his pyjama shirt. He closed his eyes with a soft breath out. It ran through Sherlock's hair like wind through a field of barley, making it shake and twitch against his skin.

Returning to his task was difficult. His fingers felt clumsy, as he struggled Sherlock out of his school shirt and into his faded old pyjama shirt. A shirt he probably hadn't worn for years and would complain incessantly about when he came to.

Yes, when he came to. It would probably be in an hour or two, surely. He would have to ask the nurse. It couldn't be long.

He craned his neck to look at Sherlock's face, limp against his collarbone. Despite the uncomfortable position, he could have been in the sweetest of sleeps. His features were relaxed and distant. It didn't look like he was going to spring awake any time soon.

When he was comfortably in his pyjama shirt, John arranged him back against the pillows. It was very much like handling a life-sized doll. Sherlock's weight was warm and floppy. There was a part of John that didn't want to let go of him. He wanted to hold him, his slim, pliable, warm body in his arms and be holding him when he awoke.

But instead he turned his attention to Sherlock's lower-half. The school trousers were loose on his thin legs and thoroughly wrinkled and faded. John fingered the battered leather belt absentmindedly.

It wasn't as though he hadn't seen Sherlock unclothed dozens of times before, it wasn't as though he hadn't  _undressed_  him dozens of times before, but it seemed different to do it when he was unconscious.

He loosened up Sherlock's belt with clammy fingers and tugged it off with some difficulty from underneath him. He tossed it onto the sick bay floor and pulled down Sherlock's overly large trousers in one smooth motion. Sherlock's legs were deathly pale, and dotted here and there with bruises, in varying shades of purple and yellow.

John removed his shoes for good measure, but left his socks. He tugged on the boxers, realising too late that the reason they may have been neglected for so long was because they had a massive hole close to the crotch.

"Oh, well," he muttered, struggling to move Sherlock's legs back under the hospital blankets.

He sat back on the bed and examined his handiwork. Sherlock hadn't stirred, hadn't uttered a sound. The paisley pyjama shirt looked ridiculous on him, and John reminded himself to take the piss out of him about it when he woke up.

He sighed to himself, fighting the urge to curl up beside him on the bed.

_When he woke up._  God knew when that would be.

\--

John turned the cigarette around in his fingers once more. He held it up to his nose and sniffed it offhandedly. It smelt stale and vaguely sickly. It didn't smell like something he wanted to inhale.

He exhaled slowly and slipped it back into his coat pocket. It had been a half-arsed thought anyway. He didn't know if he had really intended on smoking it. He had only smoked once before, when he had been about fifteen, and had decided amongst a spluttering coughing fit that he had not liked it.

To be honest, he didn't think he really wanted the cigarette at all. Not for the reasons he told himself when he had found it in the pocket of Sherlock's school shirt and transferred it into his own.

The nurse had give him an arch, amused look when she had returned to find Sherlock's uniform neatly folded on the foot of his bed. John didn't see what was wrong with keeping things orderly.

He didn't really know why he had taken the fag. He told himself it was because he didn't want the nurse to find it if she happened to move Sherlock's clothes. Which was partly true. There had been a truly foolish part of himself that insisted it was because he needed something to calm his frayed nerves, but he knew all very well it was bullshit. He would gain no peace of mind from an old, stale cigarette.

But- He lifted it up to his nose and smelt it again. Was that the smell of Sherlock's pocket? Was that Sherlock's skin impregnated on the wrapper? Or was his mind just playing cruel tricks on him?

There was the sound of shoes crunching on the gravel behind him, and he quickly shoved the unlit cigarette into his pocket. He didn't turn around, even as the footsteps neared him. He could sense someone behind him, standing just a few inches from him, but he didn't turn.

In his mind's eye, he could see Sherlock. He was rugged up in his trench coat and his scarf and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. The bruises were still stark on his pale skin, but he was smiling. A small, ironic smile. He would tap John on the shoulder. John would turn. And-

"John?"

John jerked his head around, cricking his neck in the process. Ben stared owlishly back at him, wearing his school jumper over jeans and a t-shirt. John opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "Ben. Sorry, mate."

He suddenly wished he had been firmer when Mycroft had insisted he get some fresh air. But it was hard being firm with Mycroft. He had a polite, but utterly uncompromising manner of persuasion, gently but absolutely nudging John from the room and promising he would keep a firm watch over Sherlock until his return.

Since the day before, Mycroft had appeared in the hospital sporadically to cast a brief glance over his brother. He had also taken it upon himself to ensure John was eating at regular intervals, which John sensed was his way of letting him know that he finally approved, finally saw what John had been trying to show him from the day they had met: that he cared for his brother.

"Nah, it's ok," Ben said. He glanced away, gnawing absently on his bottom lip. "Just came out for a walk," he added with a cough, as though John might suspect otherwise.

There was something tense about how he was holding himself and how he was speaking that John could see from a mile off. He had fairly decent idea why he was here.

" So... how's... Sherlock?" Ben said tentatively, avoiding his eye.

John shrugged, sliding a hand into his pocket to finger the crumbling cigarette. "Unconscious."

Ben let out a quick, soft breath. "God."

"Yeah, someone smacked his head against the wall pretty hard," John replied nonchalantly. He imagined what it would be like to wring Jim's neck. He thought it would be really, truly satisfying to watch the last spark of humanity leave the pissworm's eyes. But knowing Jim, he'd laugh even as his neck snapped.

"Fuck, mate," Ben said, with another short, sharp breath out.

John shrugged. He didn't know what Ben expected him to say. He didn't know what to say. He had spent over twelve hours hunched over in the sick bay, and he felt barely capable of stringing a complete sentence together.

"Fuck, mate," Ben said again, taking two steps forward and turning abruptly to face him. He looked pale and slightly ill. "You sure he's going to be ok?"

"I'm not a doctor," John said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. "I dunno. I suppose so. Otherwise they would have called an ambulance I guess."

He sighed, trailing the hand through his hair. He wanted Ben to leave him alone, wanted to have a few minutes just to breathe. But maybe it was just as well Ben was present. If he was left alone he'd probably take the cigarette out again and there he would be: rolling the cigarette around on his face like some attention-deprived kitten with a lump of catnip.

"Look, Ben," he said at length, without fully intending to speak. "I would really appreciate a minute alone."

He knew his behaviour was altogether unsubtle, and that he couldn't explain away his obvious misery. But he no longer cared. Let the whole school know that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes, let the whole county know it. He didn't care. They had done their worst, and he was still standing. Sherlock was still standing. Even unconscious he was spitting in their eye. He was living proof that they would not be beaten down by shitheads.

"John, I gotta tell you something," Ben blurted out.

John looked at his face. "What?" he said dully. What more could there possibly be left to tell?

"I called him," Ben said, looking at his face desperately.

"Called who?" John snapped, his patience fraying faster than ever before. "Ben, just tell me what you're going on about. I'm so over this crap."

"Sherlock's... Sherlock's brother. I called him," Ben said. "I told him to come down here."

John stared at him. "What? What did you say?"

"I found his number in Sherlock's things," Ben said hurriedly, looking awkwardly from John to his feet and back again. "Look, I know it's a dog thing to do, but I was fucking shitting myself. Moriarty... And Marty- Fuck, man. I didn't know what to do."

John just stared at him blankly.

Ben was jiggling from foot to foot, staring all around him, but not at John. "I know I should have done something. I know. But I didn't know Jim was this fucked up, you know?"

"Why didn't you just tell a teacher?" John asked, his mind still bubbling stagnantly over what Ben was telling him.

Ben sent him a look that meant quite clearly "are you fucking kidding me?" John knew he was right. The teachers would have done fuck all. Jim Moriarty was a model student. Popular, well-spoken, academically brilliant. Who would believe that he had any grudge against a spiky outcast like Sherlock? Maybe Hurst would have. But not Harvey, certainly not Harvey.

"He had his brother's number on his desk, under a bunch of crap. I dunno. I just saw his name, and I called." Ben shrugged, not altogether convincingly.

John stared. He didn't know what to do, or what to say. Half of him was proposing punching Ben in the jaw for not trying to stop what had happened in a more active manner. It had been a long shot calling Mycroft. A long shot that almost didn't pay off.

"Sherlock could have been killed," he said, looking hard at Ben. "Where the hell were you?"

"I know," Ben replied, looking wretched. "Man, I know I'm a dog. I know it, ok? I wish I had had the guts to stand up to that cunt."

"It probably wouldn't have done any good," John said bitterly. "He probably would have beaten you to hell."

"Might still happen," Ben said, smiling humourlessly.

"What do you mean?" John frowned at him, still toying with the cigarette in his pocket. He had rolled it around and around in his fingers to the point where most of the tobacco had spilt out and was stuck to his clammy fingertips.

"Jim hates my guts," Ben said, seeming remarkably casual about it. "He knows I never wanted to go along with it. He probably knows that I'm the one who called Sherlock's brother, seeing as I'm the only one who has access to his room. He'll piece it together. He's too fucking clever not to. And when he does, he'll make sure I suffer."

John felt a sudden surge of realisation regarding the risks Ben was taking in even talking to him now. He was toxic. He was friendship poison. Nobody would dare even look at him now. He was marked. Tarred. Not just an outcast, but a fully realised pariah.

"You should get out," John said.

Ben looked at him. "And go where? And tell my parents what? I can't run away."

John was quiet for a moment. He hadn't thought about his own future at Redverse. The thought hadn't even occurred to him. There were so many things he cared about at that moment, but Redverse was not one of them.

"Seen Harvey yet?" Ben said, his tone becoming more conversational.

John shook his head. "No. I reckon he'll come tonight, when everyone's out of the way."

Ben cocked his head at him. "You know he's going to try and stitch you up, right?"

John grunted. "I'm counting on it."

They were silent for some time. Ben turned and stood next to him and they both watched one of the lower grades run around the field below, while a teacher in a t-shirt and shorts blasted a whistle at them. It sang piercingly through the cold.

It felt like a very long time before John finally spoke. He could have happily stood there for an hour or two, silently beside his last friend, but he had been gone from the sick bay longer than he had intended. He wanted to be back beside Sherlock. It gave him at least a small flicker of comfort to be with him. Nothing else seemed to soothe his battered psyche.

"I better get back to... um," John didn't think it was necessary to continue pretending he wasn't spending every hour of the day beside his ex-boyfriend's sickbed, but old habits died hard.

Ben smiled wryly. "Sherlock."

"Mmm, yeah," John said, staring at the ground.

Ben nodded. "See ya later, John."

To John's surprise, he pulled him into a hug. It was brief, and John barely had a chance to respond before Ben was stepping away and walking away. John watched him go. He didn't yet know that it would be the last time they would ever speak.

He walked back to the sick bay, feeling admittedly better than he thought he would. He had gone to satisfy Mycroft, but his conversation with Ben had assuaged his mind, ever so slightly.

He took a detour by his dorm room for clean clothes and a shower, and was thankful for the midday calm. Lunch was over, everyone was in class. He didn't yet have to face anyone.

His room was exactly as he had left it, which he almost found surprising. He had almost expected to find it ransacked and his door decorated similarly to how Sherlock's had been weeks before. But it was almost eerily untouched.

He showered and dressed in peace, and took a stash of pyjamas and clothes with him in a duffel bag. He didn't like to think too much about how long it would be before Sherlock woke up, but he wanted to be prepared. He didn't want to have to face his classmates before he had to. He was happy to live in the sick bay on chocolate bars from the vending machine and a few mouthfuls of filtered water from the cooler in the nurse's office. He had already insisted to her that he would not be leaving until Sherlock woke. She had been surprisingly understanding, and had offered to let him kip on the empty bed next to Sherlock's, but John was happy sleeping upright.

He arrived at the sick bay and found the door wide open. He walked noiselessly into the now familiar hall of beds and linoleum.

Mycroft was seated in the chair he had vacated when he had left over an hour beforehand. He was leaning forward, towards his brother's still form, and one of his, achingly familiar, pale, spindly hands was resting on Sherlock's forehead.

John realised he had stumbled upon a tender moment that Mycroft probably would not wish him to witness. Still, he couldn't help looking upon the scene with a wistful ache in his chest. He had wanted to touch Sherlock for so long, but he had denied himself. It was too painful. They were broken up. Someone might walk in on them. It would just make matters worse. Or so he told himself.

He gave himself a small shake, knowing he had to make himself known. He dropped his bag loudly beside him, plunging down under the pretence of searching for something amongst the clothes inside. He heard Mycroft's chair give a squeak as he sat back quickly.

"John," he said, sounding completely unfazed.

John haphazardly grabbed a jumper from his bag and stood up. "Hi," he said, feeling awkward. "I got some clothes," he added needlessly.

"Cold, are we?" Mycroft said archly, nodding his head at the jumper in John's hand.

John was already wearing one. He shrugged, blushing. "A bit," he mumbled.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows with the ghost of a smile on his lips. He stood up, brushing off his spotless suit. John had no idea how he managed to look so well put-together after spending the night at Redverse. Unless he had made an extremely rapid visit to London.

"Where have you been disappearing off to?" John asked. He didn't know if he'd have had the courage to question Mycroft in such a blunt manner if he hadn't been through what he had been through the day before.

Mycroft looked at him, his expression absent. "Hm?"

"Where do you go?" John said, fairly certain that Mycroft had heard him.

"Oh, here and there," he replied in a breezy fashion. "Had some things to tend to."

John watched him walk to the door. He was certain he knew what Mycroft had been "tending" to. He had no doubt that he had been making sure that Harvey held the right parties accountable for his brother's injuries, that he had pinned Harvey down and had him running scared. John wondered how long it would take him to realise that Mycroft, well-spoken and polite as always, was ten times more dangerous than the average, hysterical parent.

John turned back to Sherlock, still laying pale-faced and motionless amongst a cocoon of hospital blankets. A crusty, yellow film had developed over his lips, his hair was hanging in stringy, greasy strands over his face. The nurse had been keeping his cuts and bruises well-cleaned with the bottle of harsh-smelling pink stuff, but as a result they looked shiny and sticky, like burns.

John knew that he would still have given anything to rub his face against Sherlock's, to inhale him, to kiss him, to feel him against him. He could hardly have been more perfect.

"I'll pop in later," Mycroft said, in a crisp, chipper tone that suggested he was preparing himself for another courteous assault on Harvey's nerves.

John nodded and turned to him. "Harvey is going to want to talk to me soon." He didn't know why he was telling him. Maybe part of him was hoping that Mycroft was here for him too, and would defend him as well as his brother.

"Yes," Mycroft said, his hand on the door. "I suppose he will. And I suppose it would be very prudent for me to be there during the meeting, as your parents are not yet present." He gave a brief smile. "I'll bring you a sandwich, John. Do try and keep your fluids up, won't you?"

And with that, he was gone.

\--

As it turned out, John did have a parent present when he finally faced Harvey the following morning, but Mycroft attended nonetheless. It was obvious, by the way Harvey's eyes frequently darted towards the older Holmes boy, as he sat languidly in a chair at the back of the room, legs crossed and his umbrella leaning against the wall beside him, that it had not been with his blessing that he was there.

John glanced across at his mother. She was wearing a tired expression and a slightly faded green coat. Her hair was ruffled; one of her hands was rested on the table, the acrylic nails slightly worn and chipped since John saw them last. They hadn't had a proper chance to talk. John wondered if she had spoken to his father at all about him. He wondered if she even knew why he'd stopped going to John's games, why he was probably storming around the house in a foul mood of unknowable origins.

Across from him, pale and wind-swept, was Marty Hester; Bruce Hester was seated beside him, his flabby, overfed face lowered to his chest and deeply grim. Along the table were the two other boys who had accosted John in the dorm toilets. One of them was Harris, with his equally red-haired mother in a smart, navy suit. On the end was Billy, who looked uncannily like his gormless, hulking father.

John looked from boy to boy to boy. None of them were looking at him. Marty was staring blankly at the table in between them, his eyes blank. Along the table the others were looking in opposite directions, with unreadably absent expressions on their faces.

John surveyed them bitterly. Jim's little soldiers. How well he had trained them. Moriarty himself was not yet present, and John was not sure how he would react when he saw him. He had been experiencing intense moments of unbridled rage, when he thought that the most likely thing was for him to throw himself at him and beat him until his arms hurt. But he had been wrestling with these irrational outbursts with the knowledge that Sherlock would give him his most withering look if he knew that John had wrestled Jim to the ground in a moment of unadulterated loathing. It would achieve nothing. So he would apply every ounce of willpower to resisting the urge to take immediate and violent revenge. He would wait.

Harvey had spent upwards of ten minutes shuffling papers in front of him and glancing around the room in a ruffled, dissatisfied manner. Finally, Marty's father gave a dry, imperious cough that shook his voluminous beer belly.

"Look, are we going to get a move on or not? I have to be back at work by midday," he said in a surly tone that irked John. If it had been his son who had been accused of terrorising fellow students, he would have at least had the decency not to act as though the proceedings were a complete waste of time.

"Of course," Harvey blustered, straightening the papers again. His eyes darted in the direction of where Mycroft sat. John couldn't relish his discomfort; he was impatient to see justice done, to see the true perpetrator appear. "I'm glad you are all here. I'm hoping we can sort things out in a polite, orderly fashion."

John looked sideways at his mother. Her eyes were fixed on Harvey; her lips were pursed. John watched her furl and unfurl her fingers on the table top.

"It disappoints me to have to call a meeting like this," Harvey went on in a heavy, sage fashion. "Especially when all five of you have such promising futures at this school." He kept his eyes pointedly downwards, and John wondered if he was purposely avoiding his eye. He hadn't looked in his direction once since they had sat down.

"I'm sure it's just a bit of rough and tumble," Bruce Hester said, with an imperious snort. "Boys do this sort of thing. There's no need to get hysterical." He looked at John with an expression that suggested that he blamed him for this entire situation.

"Yes, I am sure that is the case-" Harvey began hastily.

"You call this a bit of "rough and tumble"?"

John jumped slightly at his mother's voice. He looked quickly at her, and saw her eyes were flashing behind their passive blue irises. Her finger was directed at John's face. He was very conscious of the bruises sitting heavily on his features.

"He was made to bleed," his mother said, her teeth gritted. "Your son made my son bleed."

"He's done worse on the field," Bruce retorted defensively. "And to be perfectly frank, madam, if all of this fuss is over a few bruises then God help us. Boys need a bit of toughening up."

"Please!" Harvey spluttered, holding up a hand, as Mrs. Watson furiously opened her mouth to retort. "Please, this is helping no one."

"Fine," Hester said impatiently. "So what's to be done? Detention for a week? Washing up duty for a month? What?"

"Billy can't afford to miss school, Mr. 'Arvey," Billy's mother chipped in, her eyes like two sharp coals in the midst of a vast, doughy face. "He's got exams as it is."

"And what about the football season?" Mr. Hester said sharply. "Surely the school wouldn't punish the entire team by forbidding them from playing? They'd be three players-" he glanced coldly at John- "four players down."

Harvey looked shocked. "Of course not. That is the very last thing any of us wants, I am sure."

"Are you saying that a petty, little football tournament is more important than my son being beaten?" John's mother snapped.

"What are you calling "petty"?" Bruce Hester retorted. "I know your son doesn't hold much loyalty for the team, but-"

"How  _dare_  you," Mrs. Watson said poisonously. "How  _dare_  you sit there and accuse my son when your own flesh and blood has done  _this_." She jabbed a furious finger into John's face again.

Hester had gone brilliantly purple. "Maybe if he had some will to fight-"

"What the hell does that mean?" John's mother spat.

Hester's features went icy cold, as he stared at her. "It means, madam, that your son has almost singlehandedly destroyed this school's reputation with his fucking nancying about-"

John was almost thrown back in his seat, as all five feet and four inches of his mother propelled out of the chair beside him. There was a sound like a bag of wet sand hitting cement, a mighty SCHMACK! And John realised with a thrill of horror and exultation that his mother had slapped Hester rather hard across his plump face.

"Madam! Please!" Mr. Harvey was wailing, as Hester reeled back in his chair, his face a perfect painting of indignation and disbelief. "Please be reasonable!"

The other parents were staring at Mrs. Watson with similar expressions of alarm, as though they expected her to turn on them next. John looked at Marty. His expression had not changed. In fact, he could have been staring at the same chip in the table's surface since they had sat down. He barely seemed to be aware of what was happening around him.

"You crazy, old cow," Hester said in a muffled tone, holding his arm over his face, whether to defend himself from further attacks or dull the sting John wasn't certain.

"Madam, please sit down," Harvey said pleadingly, looking close to tears.

Mrs. Watson haughtily took her seat again. John felt a swell of fond pride in his chest. Under the table he gave his mother's hand a quick, firm squeeze. She looked at him briefly, her eyes still blazing, and squeezed back twice as hard.

"After careful consideration," Harvey said slowly, eyes darting between the people around the table, "I have decided that, disappointing as it is, as all have admitted their involvement I have no choice but to take action."

John glanced at the boys opposite. That they had owned up at all was surprising. He could only assume that fear had driven them to it. There was not even the slightest trace of defiance in their expressions. They could have been robots for all their reaction to the commotion that had just broken out in front of them.

"Fine," his mother said curtly. "I think a month's suspension is hardly asking too much, and that should include all football training and games. This is supposed to be a punishment, not a bloody holiday camp."

"No, absolutely not," Hester said staunchly. "This is the most important time of the year for football! They could lose the whole competition!"

"Maybe they could just miss out on training," Harvey said weakly.

"That does not sound like a punishment to me," Mrs. Watson snapped, at the same time Bruce Hester snapped: "they need those practices!"

The two of them glared at each other. Harvey looked between them miserably.

"My son has been beaten up," Mrs Watson said finally, in a tone of dangerous calm. "If you won't do anything, I will remove him from this school-"

Hester snorted.

"And then I will go to the most sympathetic current affairs program and fill them in on exactly what happens in this place behind parents' backs."

The colour drained from Harvey's face in one magnificent rush. "Threats will not help the situation-"

"Oh, that isn't a threat," Mrs. Watson said softly. "It's a promise."

There was a tense silence. It seemed to John that even Bruce Hester believed his mother capable of it. At that moment he had no doubt that she would do it. Harvey, by the look of his pasty countenance, certainly did not doubt.

"I can promise you that we take these things very seriously," Harvey said, in his best parent-pacifying voice. "They will be dealt with severely-"

"What about Jim?"

Nobody seemed to hear John. Bruce Hester and his mother had broken out into a new bout of squabbling at Harvey's words and Harvey was staring at them morosely.

John raised his voice. "Excuse me. What about Jim Moriarty?"

Nobody looked at him. Mr. Harvey was now trying to cut into his mother and Bruce Hester's argument in his usual ineffective, blustering fashion. John exhaled impatiently.

"Excuse me!" he snapped. "What about Jim Moriarty?"

The boys opposite were staring at him now. Their faces blank, but their eyes sharp and fearful. They had gone tense in their seats. It was the first time that they had shown anything like emotion.

"- total waste of time!" Bruce Hester was bawling, his face brilliantly ruddy.

"Please! Please, calm yourselves!" Harvey said, in a would-be stern voice.

"Listen to me!" John roared, his voice slicing through the bickering. He was met by several pairs of astonished eyes. He lowered his voice, ignoring their stares. "What about Moriarty? Where is he?"

Harvey knitted his brow. "What do you mean, John?"

John rolled his eyes. "What do I  _mean_? I mean why isn't he here?"

He felt a ripple of unease go through his peers opposite. He stared hard at Marty; he looked back vacantly, his eyes narrowed. John felt his mother touch his arm.

"Dear?" she said pointedly. "What do you mean?"

John shook his head, exhaling irritably. He looked between her and Harvey. "He instigated the whole thing. It's his fault that Sherlock's-" He cut off. "He did it."

There was a pause, a silence that froze the blood in John's veins. Why weren't they telling him that they already knew this? Why weren't they saying that Jim had been put into isolation, awaiting punishment, certain expulsion? Why?

"I wasn't aware..." Harvey trailed off, looking at the four boys along the left side of the table, divided between their frowning parentals.

"He wasn't there," Marty said blankly, not looking at anyone.

Harvey furrowed his brow deeper and looked along to Billy. Billy shook his head, quickly and briefly, staring hard at the table in front of him.

"That's bullshit," John spat. "How can you sit there and lie?"

"John, please," Harvey said, in what he evidently thought a soothing tone. "I can certainly talk to Jim, if that would make you feel better-"

"What would make me feel  _better_  is if he was held to account for being a sadistic, violent prick," John retorted, his hands balled up in rage.

"John," his mother said softly, her hand appearing on the arm of his jumper. "Are you sure?"

John shook away her hand. He looked sharply around at Mycroft, who had been sitting serenely in his corner, surveying the events. "You know," he snapped. "You know he was involved. This was all him. Everything."

He knew how he sounded: crazy, paranoid. This was all the fantastical ravings of someone who had just been bashed up and was probably still a bit addled in the head. Jim Moriarty was a model student, a charming and charismatic genius. The boys had owned up to everything. Jim Moriarty was guiltless.

"Mycroft, tell them," he said sharply.

Mycroft simply looked at him, his knuckles white on the handle of his umbrella. It was clear that there was nothing he could say to convince anyone that Moriarty had been involved. What evidence did he have? The word of his own brother? Nothing.

John stood up, his heart beating hard and forceful in his chest. "You," he stared at the boys opposite, at their vacant, pitiless faces. "You're going to let him get away with this. Why? Because you're too bloody gutless to stand up to him! You bastards!" He realised he was shouting, the blood was pounding in his ears, but he couldn't stop. "You fucking cowards!"

"John," his mother was staring at him, her face papery white. "John, please sit down."

She tried to touch his arm again, but John tore himself away from her and headed for the door. He burst out into the empty, cold corridor, trying to force back the enraged sobs that were wracking his body.

His bruises stung in the draughty cold. All of it, all of the pain, the anguish, the humiliation, was for nothing. Sherlock was laying in a hospital bed for nothing.

"It's all for nothing," he spat, halting in the middle of the corridor.

He heard footsteps behind him. Brisk, businesslike steps that were the very opposite of Sherlock's ambling strides.

Mycroft appeared beside him, peering at him in an uncharacteristically sheepish fashion. "John, I'm sorry."

John shook his head, staring hard at the grimy window at the end of the corridor. "Not your fault."

Mycroft gave a short, bitter chuckle. "It could be."

John looked at him wordlessly. It struck him again, the gentle similarities between Mycroft and his younger brother: their alabaster complexions, the sharp clarity of their eyes, their utterly devastating intelligence. Though John suspected that Sherlock had not yet learnt to hone his brilliance, or curb his obsessive personality. He lacked the self-control Mycroft had evidently forced himself to learn. Mycroft had tried to force Sherlock to learn it too. Unsuccessfully.

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh, and shifted his umbrella from one arm to the other. "I tried to wrangle it out of them, but people can be remarkably resistant when they're frightened."

John stared at him, realisation dawning on him like an unpleasant smell. "You were trying to make them admit Jim did it?"

"Simply put, yes," Mycroft said, sighing again. He shook his head. "Short of threatening dismemberment, I did all I could. They are... uncooperative."

John whirled on his heel, intending to march back and force them to admit Jim's involvement. Mycroft hastily grabbed hold of his elbow, his grip surprisingly strong.

"John! John, it will do no good!"

John turned to him angrily. "So he just gets away with it?" he shook his head in disbelief. "He can't do this, Mycroft. He's destroyed... everything." His voice was becoming dangerously brittle.

"No, I hope not," Mycroft said, watching him steadily and seriously. "I still have hope that Jim will not escape punishment for what he did, but it will not come from those boys. They are too damaged, too utterly damaged to be any help to you, John."

John said nothing. His throat was throbbing, and he needed Mycroft's words to be true desperately.

"Seek justice, by all means, but don't be consumed by lust for vengeance. Try to be happy, John. Be happy that you are not like them. Be happy that you and Sherlock were the target of Jim's antipathy, and not a tool of it."

John nodded. He could not feel happy at that moment. Mycroft's words seemed too elusive, and too profound for him to understand, but later, as a young man, and then as an adult, they gained more and more significance for him, and soon he was able to be happy, truly happy that he had been the victim of Jim's malignance and not a weapon of it.

"John!"

He looked back over his shoulder to where his mother was jogging down to meet him, balancing surprisingly skilfully on her favoured pair of impractical cream pumps. Mycroft gave a small amused cough.

"Well... I'd best get back to my post. I should be in the sick bay later to check up on things," he said, immediately melting back to his usual businesslike self. "That nurse of Sherlock's is a menace with that anti-bacterial wash. I swear she's trying to drown him in it."

John nodded at him with a small smile that seemed to call on all of the muscles in his face to produce. He turned back to his mother. She halted in front of him, puffing a little, and leaning a hand heavily on his shoulder for support.

"John, darling, what on earth is the matter?" she said, clutching his face between cold, lined hands. "Please tell me. You're scaring the life out of me." She looked over him critically. "Look at the mess those little cunts made to your handsome face."

"Mum," John said embarrassedly, pulling away. He glanced over his shoulder, but Mycroft was already on his way back to the meeting room.

"Well, I'm sorry, but those nasty little bullies deserve everything they get," she retorted. "And that moron isn't going to do what's right, is he? Bloody sap." She patted the pocket of her faded, pea green coat. "Let's go outside. I need a fag. Those idiots can wait for us for all I care."

John nodded and followed her out without argument. He still had Sherlock's cigarette in the pocket of his jeans; he had taken to carrying it around with him.

They perched on the crumbling step outside of a service door, and John watched his mother take one of her slim cigarettes out of the slightly crushed packet and perch it between her lips to light it. She turned her head to exhale, but the smell filled John's nostrils and his mind.

"You know I told your father to come," his mother said at length, looking at him with the cigarette perched beside her in two finger. "He wouldn't. Something about work."

"He probably didn't want Bruce Hester seeing what a pathetic loser he has for a son," John said bitterly. He kicked at the crumbling edge of the powdery step, determinedly avoiding his mother's soft, blue eyes.

"Oh, darling, no," his mother said, forcing his chin up with a finger. "He's ashamed of himself." She snorted. "And so he should be. He has certainly not been "father of the year", but that isn't your fault."

John watched his mother silently, the words bubbling up inside of him slowly. He wanted to tell her. He needed to tell her. And he knew it would be ok. "Mum," he began, as she turned to take another drag of her cigarette. He could feel the small dent in his chin from her acrylic nail. "Mum, I have to tell you something."

She looked at him quickly, accidentally exhaling into his face. "Yes, darling?" She took a tight hold of his hand.

John stared at her. "Me," he said artlessly," "me and Sherlock-"

He broke off, the heat rising in his face. His mother squeezed his hand with a wan twitch of her lips.

"It's alright, darling," she said softly. "I know."

John simply looked at her. She tugged at his elbows, dropping the half-smoked cigarette over her shoulder onto the gravel. She pulled him into her arms, and he didn't resist. He burrowed his face into the smell of her coat, inhaling the smoke and the perfume and his mother's shampoo, the same shampoo she had been use for ten years, the same shampoo she had been using since he was just a child and needed her to take him up in her arms and rock him when he had nightmares.

"Mum..." he said weakly into her shoulder. "Everything is such a mess."

She stroked his hair, making the same hushing sound she had when he had been five. For once, he didn't duck away from her or complain that he was too old, he was glad to be her baby again. Maybe just one last time. "Shush, darling," she said softly. "It's alright."

John didn't know how long they stood like that, his mother's arms wrapped around him possessive and tight, and his face buried warmly into the collar of her coat. It wasn't until one of the gardeners disturbed them, coming across the gravel with his wheelbarrow, that John shuffled out of her embrace.

"We better..." he said bashfully, he gestured to the service door.

His mother blinked at him in an owlish way, her eyes suddenly damp. "Oh, my Johnny boy," she said, feeling for a tissue in her pocket.

" _Mum_ ," John said, horrified. "There's no reason to cry." He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder of her coat. "It's fine. I'm fine! Look!"

He realised too late that his bruised and battered face was probably not an overwhelming indicator of his fineness.

His mother gave him a watery smile and blew her nose noisily. "I know, dear. I just wish I had- Oh it doesn't matter..."

She shook her head and, before John could coax anything more out of her, had turned and disappeared back into the school. He followed her, wondering if he could face going back into the meeting. The anger was too near, the desire to take out his rage on the boys who had so willingly done Jim's bidding too strong and overwhelming.

At the door of the boardroom, he grabbed his mother's elbow. "Mum, I don't want to go back in there."

She nodded, knitting her eyebrows concernedly. "That's alright, Johnny. You don't have to. Maybe it would be better if you went and found..." She looked at him sideways. "Found your friend."

John nodded. That was exactly what he had hoped to do. He gave his mother's arm a quick squeeze and turned to leave, but before he could he felt her grip the arm of his jumper.

"One more thing," she said quickly. "How did you like your present?"

John looked at her blankly.

"Your Christmas present," she clarified, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh!" John felt a flush of embarrassment. He hadn't even thought about the brown parcel in weeks. It had been sitting in his desk at the very back of his consciousness. "Oh... I... I haven't had a chance to-"

His mother smiled wanly at him, seeming to understand that his not opening the present was probably for the same reason he had stopped replying to her letters.

"It's alright, darling. You open it when you feel like it."

She kissed him briefly on the cheek and was gone, leaving John to stare guiltily after her, feeling like the worst son since Oedipus.

He decided to make a detour past his dorm room. He let himself in and found that it still held the same mournful air of abandonment that it had yesterday when he'd been there, despite Billy's side of the room being its usual disordered chaos.

John's side of the room could have lain untouched for months by the look of it. Apparently Billy thought he might catch gay if he touched any of John's belongings, which was fine with him. He didn't want anyone thumbing through his things.

He gave the depressing interior the once over and crossed to his desk. It was as neat as he had left it, with his school books on the left, and his laptop on the right. He opened the top drawer and was almost surprised to see his mother's parcel still sitting there, virtually untouched.

He tugged it out and went straight to his bed to open it. It had been so long since his mother had sent it to him. His stomach twisted as he fingered at the Sellotape on the folds of the brown paper. It was something very light and oddly shaped inside. He couldn't feel what it was through the paper, or his brain made no suggestions of what it could be.

He managed to tear open one half of it and, with a quick, deep breath, tipped it upside down onto his bed. There was a soft hiss as something rushed down the brown paper and landed noiselessly on his bed covers. He realised even before he saw it properly what it was, and his heart stood still in his chest.

_End of Chapter Thirty_


	31. Chapter 31

Sherlock was becoming used to waking up with a throbbing headache and his mouth dry and foul-tasting from the air-conditioning that was on full-blast round-the-clock in the sick bay. He was also becoming used to the sensation of the sticky pink crap the nurse insisted on slavering all over his face.

He hadn't looked at himself in a mirror since he'd woken up, but he could tell from patting his hair that he looked like a washed-out, sticky scarecrow. It was a wonder John could put up with staring at him hour after hour from his adopted chair, only closing his eyes when exhaustion completely overtook him.

Since he'd woken a day beforehand, John had been there. And, Mycroft told him, had been there before he'd woken up too. Sherlock didn't dare hope that this meant what every ounce of him wanted it to mean. He couldn't let the thought penetrate his brain. He couldn't afford to hope. He  _couldn't_.

John was a caring person, a friend who cared about his wellbeing. That did not mean he intended to forgive Sherlock. Nor should he, Sherlock thought glumly, staring at the wall opposite.

Mycroft had made that very clear to him. They had a few... brother to brother chats since Sherlock had regained consciousness, or rather Mycroft had forced information out of him and then prompted to lay into him for being a thick, selfish tosser.

Sherlock knew he deserved it, but it was even more humbling coming from his brother. He kept his mouth shut and took it, though he fully intended to take revenge on his brother in the future, perhaps when he tripped up on his new "healthy, low-sugar" diet that he had been harping on about like he was entering a nunnery.

Mycroft and John had been gone for almost an hour now, going by the yellowing plastic clock Sherlock had taken to staring at when he didn't have the mercy of sleep. He hadn't been aware that this depth of boredom existed. He had counted all of the beds, all of the windows, all of the bed pans, concluded that the nurse was probably divorced by the look of her vacant ring-finger and by the fact he'd heard her arguing on the phone with someone who seemed to be giving the brief, vexed responses of an unhappy teenager, and he had construed many, many, many,  _many_ scenarios in his head where he had blurted out an apology to John, prompting him to kiss him passionately and forgive him immediately for his transgressions.

Of course, in reality, John would be more likely to punch him in the face if he did anything so half-arsed as apologise in a sick bay. And according to Mycroft, he needn't expect John to forgive him. He had done something very,  _very_  stupid.

Any parallels Sherlock tried to draw between them were quickly brushed aside. Mycroft had acted for Sherlock's benefit, Sherlock had stomped stupidly and blindly into a trap, let his emotions rule him, and wounded John terribly in the process. There was no comparison.

Sherlock sighed and rearranged himself against his pillows. As he did so, something caught his eye from his bedside table. He jerked his head around, for a moment hardly able to believe what he saw.

"What the..." he murmured, picking up the mobile phone with furrowed brows.

He hadn't seen it since the day... Well. He had lost it. It hadn't even crossed his mind what could have happened to it. To be frank, he hadn't cared.

He unlocked it and went into his messages and photos, and both were the same as he had left them. Nothing had been changed or messed with. But that in itself sent a shiver up his spine. It was pristine, untouched.

He looked up at the empty doorway. Outside in the corridor he could hear footsteps. And whistling. Someone was walking- No, the correct word would be strolling up the corridor, and whistling something tuneless and nondescript.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the bedcovers, staring around the empty sick bay. The nurse was in the office; he could hear her thumping around in her white, patent leather shoes. She would surely hear him if he shouted. The glass on the door of her office couldn't be that thick and it was only six or seven feet away.

As an afterthought, he slid the mobile phone beside him on the bed, covering it with his hand. His long, slender fingers almost obscured it entirely.

Around the sick bay door came a pristine Redverse uniform, complete with blazer, and a smirk on a flawless, alabaster face, below a slick of dark hair.

Sherlock stared at him, his fingers twitching on top of the covers. He would remain calm. He would not let his emotions rule him. As much as he loathed taking Mycroft's advice, he knew he was right- at least in this circumstance.

"How's the wounded soldier?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He felt blissfully serene. Maybe it was the after-effects of being knocked out, or his body was finding a previously unknown source of endorphins. "Hello, Moriarty."

Jim smirked, though it lacked his prior glee. "On a second-name basis now, are we? Oh dear..."

"You look rough," Sherlock said quietly, keeping his eyes latched on him as he wandered casually around the sick bay.

Jim looked sideways at him, a wolfish grin playing on his lips. "You, however, look divine. As always."

Sherlock sneered. "Thanks to your patsies."

Jim shrugged, though it was clear by the twitch of his lips that he felt extreme pride in his successfully programming his minions to precisely carry out his instructions. He had virtually instructed them to each fall on their own particular sword, and down they'd fallen. Obediently and willingly.

"And yet... you seem unsatisfied," Sherlock said conversationally, as Jim paced to and fro like a caged animal.

Jim turned to him, raising his eyebrows as he looked him over, reminding Sherlock of a doctor looking over his patient. "What a mess that old hag has made of you. May I?"

"Be my guest," Sherlock said shortly.

Jim took three short steps towards him and was beside his bed, one hand touching the curve of his chin. He turned his face this way and that, as though he was looking for one particular mark on Sherlock's battered flesh. "Look how marked you look. How  _owned_. How does it feel?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth at him. "I couldn't possibly describe it to you."

Jim gave a tinkling laugh and dropped his face. He turned on his heel, walking around the edge of his bed and then back again, falling back into a restless pace. "Of course I haven't gotten what I came here for."

Sherlock kept his eyes on him. With the hand on his phone, he entered the main menu. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a confusion of colours and symbols. Jim didn't look at him.

"I came to visit you, you know," Jim said, continuing his route back and forth around the bed. "When your brother and the toy were away."

Sherlock let the words wash over him. "Indeed? Did that please you? To have me helpless? To be able to do whatever you like? Play out your little fantasies?"

Jim looked at him with a crooked smirk. "I will admit that having you so compliant was a novelty- at first. But it became a bore. Having you alive and kicking is much more interesting."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. He had located what he thought was the symbol of a microphone on his phone menu and pressed it quickly with his thumb. "How sweet. And now? You said you hadn't gotten what you came for."

Jim halted at the foot of the bed, sliding his hands into the pockets of his school trousers, and looking far older than his seventeen years. "Well, of course, Sherlock, darling." He raised his eyebrows in an almost matronly fashion. "You haven't forgotten what I promised to do when we first met, do you? Tut tut. Did I make such a fleeting impression..."

"You wanted to drive me out of the school," Sherlock retorted, barely daring to apply the pressure needed to activate the 'record' button on the touch screen of his phone. "You failed. If you haven't noticed, me and John aren't the ones facing expulsion."

Jim chuckled, with a sweet smile. "I doubt they'll expel them. No, I think my little friends will get off with a suspension at worst..." He lowered his eyes in a mockingly demure fashion. "I think we'll all be in this place together for a bit longer yet. Unless..." His eyes snapped up onto his.

Sherlock looked over Jim's face: the hollows of his cheeks, and his dark, shadowed eyes. The eyes themselves were set deep into his delicate skull. He seemed to have lost weight since he first came to Redverse. Perhaps his frenzied pursuit of Sherlock had made him ill.

Sherlock's stomach twisted sickeningly inside of him, and he had to close his eyes for half a second to calm himself again, and shrug away the temptation to panic. "Unless me and John get out?" he said, opening his eyes slowly.

"Oh, not John," Jim replied, feigning a shocked expression. "Did I say John? I never mentioned John, Sherlock. Not once. No..." He took a step towards him, his eyes fixed fiercely on his. "Just you. I need you to leave. I need you to get out."

"Or what?" Sherlock breathed.

Jim's mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. "Oh, dear. Have all those knocks to the head slowed your wee, little brain?" he said mockingly. "Or I'll fucking  _kill_  John Watson, you waste of human flesh!" He roared the last words at him, his eyes flashing in his skull.

"Since you've asked so nicely," Sherlock said coolly, staring impassively into Jim's blank eyes. "I'll answer equally so." He smiled up at him. "Go fuck yourself."

Jim simply stared at him for a moment, and then, almost on cue, he burst out into peels of manic, gleeful laughter. He spun around, clutching his knees with both hands. When he turned back to Sherlock, he was pretending to wipe a tear away from his eye. "That's what I love about you, Sherlock. You're always so  _funny_. Here you are, in the worst position you could possibly be in, and yet you still manage to crack out the wit.  _Breathtaking-"_

_I doubt they'll expel them. No, I think my little friends will get off with a suspension at worst..._

Jim frowned. His voice, somewhat muffled and distorted, but nonetheless audible, was coming from beneath Sherlock's hand. Sherlock held up the phone, feeling grim, and not as triumphant as he had envisioned.

_Unless me and John get out?_

There was Sherlock's voice, thin and tired, but recognisable. Sherlock pressed 'stop' and lowered the phone again. Jim was simply staring at him.

"So sorry, Jim," he spat. "It pains me to play dirty against you, it really does, but you see, I have something more important than games to think about now."

Jim raised his hackles in a vicious sneer. " _John Watson_."

"Always," Sherlock said quietly. "Forever."

Jim's looked at him blankly. For once, lost for words. For once, taken off guard. For once, the loser.

"Game over," Sherlock hissed.

Jim took another step towards him. Slowly and with utmost calm, he slid his hands around Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's eyes widened as he felt pressure on his jugular, heavy and uncomfortable. He choked slightly.

"You are so beautiful, Sherlock," Jim said musingly, calmly choking him, as though he were picking lint off his shirt. "So very intelligent. Oh, how I would have loved to own you. Damaged, as you are. I would have fixed you. I would have."

Sherlock could only splutter in response, throwing a hand up to clutch at Jim's. The word "help" was crushed in his throat and came out as little more than a harsh syllable.

Sherlock's vision began to blur, but the pain only got worse. The sounds being forced from his throat were a series of high-pitched gasps.

"This wasn't how it was meant to go," Jim panted.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Outside of his confused sphere of pain he heard footsteps and a voice swearing furiously. And then, Jim's hands were wrenched from his throat. He choked in a breath desperately, hardly able to take in enough air to sate his deprived lungs.

He groggily opened his eyes and was met by the sight of John and the nurse wrestling Jim away from his bed. If he hadn't been desperately inhaling, Sherlock would almost have found in comical. Especially the expression on Jim's face, as he was yanked away. He didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the nurse demanded, propping her hammy fists up on her hips.

John was staring from Jim to Sherlock, breathing furiously and pink in the face from exertion and rage. Sherlock could see it in his eyes. He knew that John longed to put his hands around Jim's throat the way he had around Sherlock's. He was barely holding himself back from smashing Jim's face into the floor right there and then.

"The noble sidekick, here to save the day!" Jim spat, imperiously ignoring the nurse. "You pathetic toy. Hit me! Hit me like you want to, like I know you want to. All that rage, all that antipathy. Just give in to it!" His voice became a perfect shriek. "Make me bleed!"

John looked at him with pure disgust. "I'm not sinking to your level. It's not even worth the energy to punch you. I wouldn't want to dirty my hands."

Jim snarled and turned on his heel, stalking for the door. The nurse was hot on his heels.

"Young man!" she was saying furiously. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but this is a  _sick bay_  and that sort of behaviour is completely unacceptable!"

Then they were both gone, and John and Sherlock were alone.

They stared at each other, both breathing heavily. Sherlock was wheezing, massaging his vocal chords with one hand. He hadn't imagined that Jim could be so strong.

"Are you alright?" John said awkwardly.

Sherlock nodded. It still hurt too much to speak. He doubted whether he could have verbalized his feelings even if he had been able to. He was still clutching the phone in his hand. He had been squeezing it so tightly when Jim had been choking him that it had cut into the edge of his hand.

"What the hell was he thinking?" John burst out, his face flushing with fury. "He really has gone off his rocker."

Sherlock shook his head and tried to speak. His voice came out surprisingly clear, though husky. "I... recorded..." He held up his phone, hoping John would understand his meaning. "Threats."

John stared at him for a moment and then his eyebrows shot up. "You what? Sherlock... Sherlock, fuck!" His expression darkened. "You could have been seriously hurt. You should know what he's capable of by now, you idiot! How could you do something so risky?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You honestly never think about anyone but yourself," John ranted furiously. "What if I hadn't walked in? What if you had passed out?  _Jesus_. You are the biggest, bloody idiot!"

Sherlock simply looked at him, one hand wrapped around his aching throat. He could only watch as John began an irate progression about the bed, walking in much the same place as Jim had minutes beforehand.

"You never learn!" he continued, marching furiously to and fro. "You'd think that getting beaten to a bloody pulp would drive some sense into your head but no, not you, not Sherlock bloody Holmes. He has to put himself in danger at every-"

He broke off sharply, staring down at the hand Sherlock had laid on his arm as he had made his irritated route back around the bed. He made a movement, as though to tear his himself away, but changed his mind abruptly and let his arms go limp beside him, staring at Sherlock with a mixture of anger and helplessness.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arm. His throat was swollen and beginning to throb, but he forced the words out. "I'm... sorry." He could do little more than stare at John and hope, hope more intently than he had for anything else in his life. "I'm sorry."

John gazed at him, his expression difficult to read, his body language tense and frazzled. He tugged his arm away from Sherlock's hand, and this time Sherlock let him go.

John turned and walked away. Sherlock stared after him, the ache in his throat becoming intense. John was at the door of the sick bay when he suddenly and sharply turned around.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other across the empty corridor, Sherlock still absently clutching at his throat and John standing with his fists clutched and his body tense and frozen in the doorway.

In a few hurried steps he was at Sherlock's bedside, one knee resting on the mattress and both hands clutching Sherlock's face. His kiss was fierce, and took Sherlock's breath away. Before his brain had properly adjusted itself to this development, he found his hands clutching at John's arms and chest, his lips responding to John's like it had been minutes since their last kiss.

"John," he breathed, when they both came up for air. One of John's hands had moved from his face and was tangled in his hair.

"Sherlock," John said softly.

_THWACK!_

The force of the slap threw Sherlock's head to the side. Pain erupted in one hot sting in his cheek.

"What the bloody hell was that for?" he exclaimed, completely forgetting his sore throat, as he clutched his face with both hands.

"Something I learnt from my mother," John snapped, his face pink. It was difficult to tell if it was from adrenaline at slapping Sherlock or arousal at kissing him. "You deserve worse than that. I should punch you in the mouth."

"Please don't," Sherlock croaked. "I don't know how much more punching my face can take."

John looked at him coldly. "I swear if you mess me around, I will walk away and I will not be giving you any more second chances. I mean it. Do not fuck up again."

Sherlock stared at him, one hand still pinned to his cheek. "John," he said quietly.

"Just promise," John said shortly, crossing his arms.

"I promise," Sherlock said so quickly it came out more as a garble. "God, I promise. Please... Please-"

He didn't even know what he was asking for until John came back to his bed, his arms carefully wrapping around his torso. He pressed his face into the material of John's jumper, ignorant of the way the wool irritated his cuts and bruises.

"Your face..." Sherlock said, as they broke apart and John sat on the edge of his bed. He gently touched John's skin, close to a particularly ugly bruise beneath his left eye.

"They'll heal," John replied.

He was right, of course. Sherlock knew the bruises would fade, the cuts would close up, but it felt as though something deeper had been left on them, something deeper than a flesh wound. Some things wouldn't heal. Some things they wouldn't forget, no matter how fast or far they ran. But hopefully they would always be there to wake each other up from the nightmares.

\--

Sherlock remembered the day he had first set eyes on Redverse. His parents had been in Poland at the time so they'd paid for a taxi to drive him. He'd pulled up to a vast, dirty facade of bricks and windows, set back some hundred feet from the gates at the end of a long, smart gravel path.

In the middle of nowhere, it looked more like an asylum than a school. It probably had been once. It was funny that in the years he had been there, it had not occurred to Sherlock to do some digging on what the school had been used for before it had been Redverse.

Now, as he looked at it from the same place in front of the black iron gates that he had when he'd caught his first glimpse of the school, he could hardly believe that it would be the last time he looked upon it. He intended it to be the last time. He was not coming back here. He was free of it. At last.

But not yet. He didn't dare to get his hopes up until the sight of it had faded in the rear window of the car. It was a foolish, childish sensation, but he still expected to be torn back through the gates, as though by the tentacle of some creature. Back into the depths of that hellhole.

He looked at John. He was fiddling with something under his jumper again. He looked very pale under the bruises still sprinkled on his face. Sherlock gave his hand a squeeze. John looked up at him and gave him a very small smile.

"You alright?" he said, typically more concerned about Sherlock than himself. "Not feeling too achey, are you?"

Sherlock shook his head. In truth, he was getting a little stiff, but John needn't know now. It had taken some convincing for him, his brother and the nurse to all concede that he could travel just two days after waking up. He was still very tender, and walking was a slow and mildly painful process.

But he wouldn't be the one to delay them. Despite John's insisting that he would wait for as long as it took for Sherlock to get better, Sherlock knew it was bullshit. John wanted out.

"What time did they say they were coming?" John asked, tugging at the collar of his jumper.

"10," Sherlock said. "Don't worry, they won't be late."

"They" were the odd couple on their way to pick them up. Mycroft and John's mother, who had volunteered her car. It was a very bizarre thought to imagine his pompous, stiff-backed brother sitting long-legged in the front seat of Mrs Watson's little car, while she chattered away in her good-natured, not particularly well-spoken fashion.

"Let me look at it again," John said, turning his head towards him, one of his hands still clinging to the collar of his jumper.

Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about, and he was reluctant. "Again? John."

"Don't "John" me," he retorted. "Let me look at it."

Sherlock sighed and felt for his phone inside of his picket. He grudgingly handed it over. He was going to delete it, despite John's protests about taking it to the police, or telling Mycroft. He knew that neither of those options would do much good.

John stared at the screen, his eyes moving as he read the text. God knew how many times he had already.

"That's a threat," John said, handing it back to him. "That's a goddamned threat."

"I know, John," Sherlock said patiently. "But what can we do?"

"The police-" John began.

"Will think we're stupid kids winding them up," Sherlock interjected. "It's just his parting shot, John. We'll be ready for him next time."

He put the phone back in his pocket. It wasn't that he didn't care, but he didn't think Moriarty would come at them again anytime soon. He needed time to regroup, to lick his wounds and nurse his ego. He had lost control. That must have been a terrible thing for him to realise. He had lost control and then lost to Sherlock. The humiliation must have stung him like a wound.

"He won't chase us," Sherlock said, closing the gap between them. "I know he won't. He was beaten, fair and square. It'll take him time to accept that."

John let Sherlock wrap his arms around his torso. "I know, but-"

"What the heck is that?" Sherlock said, stepping away abruptly and touching his chest. "Something just stabbed me."

John looked at him, his expression something between amusement and sheepishness. "What?" he said in an unconvincingly nonchalant tone.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "John."

"Don't "John" me," John said, frowning, though there was little force in his words. "Fine. But if you laugh, I'll-"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Hurry up and reveal your secret."

John sent him a withering look and reluctantly peeled off his jumper. He had to be more careful than prior, because of his own various bumps and tender spots. Sherlock couldn't help thinking that sex was going to be a fragile event, if neither of them could move without wincing.

Sherlock stared at John's chest for a moment and then grinned. "I see."

"You said you wouldn't laugh." John said, frowning.

"I'm not laughing," Sherlock said, hastily straightening his face. He reached out to touch the instrument around John's neck. "Should I take this as a good sign?"

John shrugged in a would-be nonchalant fashion. "Mum bought it for me."

Sherlock arched his eyebrows. "Really? How about that. She knows more about you then you thought."

John looked at him flatly. "Don't look so smug. Nothing is decided."

Sherlock shrugged. "You're wearing a stethoscope around like a scarf, but nothing is decided. That's a bit of a contradiction, isn't it?"

"Oh, shut up," John said, smirking reluctantly.

Sherlock watched him hastily pull his jumper back on and tuck it back under. He could only hope that John realised sooner than later that he had every right to want it, to strive for it, to not be embarrassed for thinking he could do it.

Sherlock watched John, tracing the outline of his face, every bruise and the particularly long cut under his eyebrow. How he wanted to kiss him. He had been refraining. He didn't feel he had earned back the right to touch John without an invitation.

"Can I, ah, kiss you?" he asked, feeling foolish.

John didn't laugh, or even snigger. He simply nodded. Sherlock leant forward and pressed a very gentle kiss to John's mouth. He was mindful of pressing too hard, or accidentally hurting him, but soon John's hands had slipped up behind his neck to pull him deeper and harder into the kiss.

They broke apart; John stared up at him, a little pink in the face and still clinging loosely to his shoulders. "You don't have to treat me like I'm breakable," he said wryly. "You're in a worse state than I am."

"Thanks," Sherlock said flatly.

John stared at him pensively for a moment and then stepped away with a frustrated sound. "I wish they'd hurry up."

There was a crunch on the gravel behind them. They both turned at the same time to see Bruce Hester's squat, hammy figure coming down the path with Marty beside him. He had two suitcases; his father was holding one also. His face was ashen and hard as rock.

Sherlock wondered if he'd ever be the same, if he'd ever regain his confidence and shake off what he had gone through. It must have been unspeakably painful for him to be deserted by Jim. It would have finally driven home the truth: he had been nothing to him. Jim had fled the school without a thought about anyone, but himself. Marty could have been dead for all he cared.

They passed John and Sherlock without a word and barely a glance. Bruce Hester placed one of his huge, pudgy hands on his son's shoulder and steered him away to a BMW parked alongside the curb. Marty seemed barely conscious of what was going on around him.

John was staring at them with his mouth slightly ajar, and his eyes glassy. They both watched until the car pulled out and disappeared up the road.

"Do you think they'll bother coming back?" John said.

"They might do," Sherlock replied, with a shrug. "A month is a long time. By the time he gets back, the football season will be over."

John shrugged, his expression hard. "Serves him right, the tosser."

There was something not altogether convincing about his tone. Sherlock suspected that he pitied Marty, against reason and logic. Marty was alone. He had been deserted, duped, used beyond comprehension. If that wasn't a good reason for pity, Sherlock didn't know what was.

"They deserved to be expelled," John muttered, absently fiddling with the stethoscope through his jumper. "If it was anyone else, they would have been."

"I think I can hear a car," Sherlock said, not meaning to change the subject, but also not particularly eager to pursue it.

They stood in dead silence, and sure enough, moments later, a rather noisy Ford Focus turned rapidly around the corner and hurtled down towards them. It was in need of a good wash, and was very, very small, but Sherlock had never been so happy to see a car in his life.

It stopped in front of them, and Mycroft unfolded himself onto the pavement, looking ever so faintly green, and dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief. From the driver's side came Mrs. Watson in a pink sundress and tights with her blonde hair crushed underneath a woollen hat.

"Hello, Johnny," she said fondly, looking anxiously tired as she embraced her son and kissed him on each cheek.

"Mum," John said embarrassedly, looking at Sherlock.

"Oh, Sherlock doesn't mind, do you, dear?" she said, the fondness in her voice almost seeming to increase when she looked at him. "Come here, you goose."

Before Sherlock could respond, he was tugged into a hug. "Hello, Mrs. Watson," he said awkwardly, avoiding his brother's eye.

When she let him go, he reluctantly turned to greet his brother. He was clearly nursing car sickness and seemed uninclined to tease him at that moment. "Hello, Mycroft. Having a spot of bother with nausea, are we?"

Mycroft send him a narrow look over his handkerchief. "Not at all."

"Well, we'd best hit the road," Mrs. Watson said, seeming determined to supply enough cheer for all four of them. "Help me get your bags into the back."

John sent him a pained expression that suggested at how he was feeling about spending the next two hours trapped in the car with his jittery mother and Mycroft's car sickness. Sherlock just smirked back at him.

It didn't matter. They were leaving. He would turn around in the back of the hopelessly small, cramped car and he would see the black gates, the ugly brick building disappearing behind him and know that never again would he belong to it, never again would it lay a claim on him, or John.

They were free.

"You know what's funny?" John mumbled, as they were entering the highway. His head was lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder.

"What?" Sherlock said quietly.

"We never found out what mark we got for that stupid play," John said, through a yawn. "After all that crap."

Sherlock couldn't help smirking at that.

\--

It was like something out of a television sketch. John had never seen a more motley crew jammed into his living room.

His mother was busy handing out tea in chipped mugs sporting cartoon characters of various descriptions. He got one with Garfield on it, Sherlock's had Snoopy. They exchanged a similar expression of entrapment.

Perched on the edge of the sofa opposite, Mycroft looked positively cartoonish in his smart suit, a Batman mug held primly in one hand. He was seated next to Harriet, who had cut the remainder of her hair off and gained two piercings since he last saw her.

In the easy chair John's father had used to occupy his mother had finally sat down, though her stream of chattering small talk did not cease.

John retreated into his own mug. He was dying to be alone with Sherlock. It was like something out of a horror movie to watch the minute hand tick down to when Mycroft and Sherlock would have to leave for London.

That would be it. Done. They'd be gone.

John closed his eyes. He couldn't stand this.

"John will probably going to the local state school," his mother was saying cheerfully. "Unless he can get another scholarship of course. We think he'd do just fine at a state school though, he's very bright."

"Oh, no doubt," Mycroft replied politely.

John cringed.

"Where will Sherlock be off to?" his mother went on, almost without taking a breath. "It's such a shame to split the boys up, but... Well, they'll have the holidays."

John opened his eyes. He looked at his mother in disbelief, but she was pointedly avoiding his eye. He looked at Harriet, but she just shrugged at him.

"We're not entirely certain," Mycroft said archly, looking at Sherlock, who was calmly sipping his tea, not looking at anyone. "Mother and father are often... preoccupied, so I believe it will be down to me."

"Oh, I see- John? Where are you going?"

John just shook his head at his mother's slightly shrill voice. He placed his mug down on the coffee table and headed for the stairs. He heard Sherlock follow him. He had counted on it.

"I'll talk to him," he heard him say quickly to the others, by means of ensuring they were alone.

John took the stairs two at a time, and didn't stop at the landing. He hurtled around to his bedroom door, feeling the urge to punch something growing furiously inside him.

"John!" Sherlock grabbed the back of his jumper, forcing him to stop. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" John snapped, turning to him. "How can you sit there and be so calm? I'm going to be stuck here and you're going back to London. How can you be okay with that?"

"I'm not," Sherlock said grimly. "But we don't have a choice."

John shook his head in slow disbelief at him and then turned and burst into his bedroom. It was cold and slightly dank. He stared around it. It was barely a home to him.

"I wish he was here," he said quietly, staring at his curtains, pulled across the windows and the grey, overcast sky outside.

"Your father."Sherlock was close behind him.

"Yes." John laughed bitterly. "He's such a coward. He couldn't even face me, after everything that happened. Mum says that he just needs time, but how can I believe that when he couldn't even bring himself to be here when I got home? He's screwed us all over."

He felt Sherlock's hands carefully encircle his waist. His lips pressed briefly into his hair. "He'll come around. He just needs time."

"How much time does he need?" John asked blankly.

"I'm not saying you should forgive him," Sherlock said, uncharacteristically gentle. "I'm saying you should wait. Wait for him to come home, and then tell him he disappointed you. Chances are he already knows it. Why else would be run?"

John shrugged away Sherlock's hands and went to the bed. He smoothed it down and sat against the wall. Sherlock followed him, sitting alongside him, as he had hoped he would. He needed him close to him now.

A bleak, cold silence engulfed them.

"I know it hurts," Sherlock said softly, finally breaking it.

John could see him watching him with his intent, grey eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to look at him.

"We will be together, John."

"How do you know that?" John said in a voice as numb as he felt. "We could be apart for months. You could..."

"No," Sherlock said, almost sharply. "I won't "get bored", I won't forget you, I won't find someone I like more. That's rubbish."

John would cling to those words in the months that were to come. Some nights his loneliness was more than he could bear, and from his memory he would extract those words, wrap them around him and squeeze every ounce of warmth and security he could from them.

Sherlock cupped his chin with a cold hand. "We will be together, John."

John could only nod, as the hopelessness and regret welled up inside of him. How could he have taken all of those months at Redverse for granted?

Sherlock kissed him, even more gently than when they had been outside the gates of Redverse. John gripped his shoulders, letting his nails sink into him and yanked him hard against him. "You are not giving me some wimpy, poufy goodbye kiss, Holmes," he growled.

He forced Sherlock's mouth open and took quick ownership, desperately wanting to taste every inch of Sherlock's mouth. Indeed of his body. He needed to remember all of this. Every inch of it.

Sherlock quickly responded, his hands exploring and searching over John's body with heated purpose. He squeezed between John's legs. "I want to fuck you," he growled into his ear. "I want to fuck you so hard you remember it every time you're alone."

John swallowed thickly. He pulled Sherlock down on top of him, their legs becoming hopelessly entangled. Sherlock slid his hands under his jumper and tore it off, in a slightly painful manner. The stethoscope was still around his neck. He felt slightly and embarrassingly like a child carrying their favourite toy around, but Sherlock didn't smirk.

He carefully removed it and placed it on the bedside table before returning to kissing John fiercely on every inch of his face and neck. John could feel himself getting hard. He was almost oblivious to the small aches and pains of his bruises, but he could see Sherlock wincing ever-so slightly whenever he moved too quickly.

"Are you in pain?" he said softly.

Sherlock looked up at him, his face flushed. "No," he said.

John raised his eyebrows at him.

"No," Sherlock insisted. "Nothing I can't handle."

John rolled his eyes, but allowed him to continue. It was hard not to want him to keep going. His knee had slid between his legs; his hands were on his chest, his pinkies stroking his nipples into hardened nubs through his t-shirt.

He stroked Sherlock's hair back from his face, kissing him fiercely on the lips and pulling him against him closer than they had been in weeks. He slid a hand behind Sherlock's neck, holding him into the kiss, and barely noticing the telling bulge of his erection against his thigh until they broke apart.

"Doesn't take much to get you hot, does it?" he teased, slightly breathless.

"Speak for yourself," Sherlock breathed with a smirk, pushing a hand down between them to cup the mound of John's cock. It had become fully hard during their kiss, and more than a little sore inside his jeans.

"There's a rubber in the drawer," John said, his mind beginning to become foggy with the need to have his lust sated. "Do we have anything to use for lube?"

"Not unless you want to venture back down to our bags," Sherlock said archly.

"Fine, we'll make do," John said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock grinned and felt clumsily for the drawer of the bedside table, seeming unwilling to stop kissing John's jaw and neck. John forced him upright, off of him and quickly tore his own shirt off, dropping it alongside his jumper on the floor.

Sherlock leant over him, his torso pressed against him and his hair engulfing much of his face, in search of the condom in the drawer. John was content to wait underneath him while he felt around for it.

"Where the... I can't..." he was muttering, as he rummaged. "Aha!"

He produced it triumphantly. He dropped it onto the bed beside them and followed John in removing his jumper, but when it came to his t-shirt, he hesitated.

He looked pensively at John, his fingers poised at the hem. John knew what he was thinking.

"It's okay," he said. "I've seen them."

Sherlock nodded and pulled it off in one smooth movement. Underneath, his body was chequered with bruises. John couldn't help reaching out a hand and gently touching one. Sherlock's skin flinched against him.

"So beautiful," he smiled. "Even now."

He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips, kneeling up against him. They were still both in their jeans. Something Sherlock soon had a mind to correct.

He tore himself away from John's mouth and hastily undid the buttons on both of their flies and tore them down one after the other. John let him do it, watching him in amusement. He wiggled out of his jeans and kicked them onto the carpet. Sherlock did the same.

John let his eyes roam down Sherlock's form. Even his legs were marked here and there with bruises, of varying size and shade. John trailed his fingers faintly down Sherlock's skin, over his slight shoulders, his stomach, his thighs.

"We look a mess," he said, glancing down at his own slightly battered body.

Sherlock shrugged. "It'll all fade." He closed the gap between them. The sensation of cold, smooth skin against his sent goosebumps over every inch of John's body. The hair on his arms, neck and legs stood up on end.

His crotch was pinned against Sherlock's, and he was already slightly wet. Sherlock gave him a teasing stroke, his mouth close to his ear. His breath was hot on his neck when he spoke.

"Lay down."

John did as he was told, arranging himself against the pillows of his bed. He could see his bedroom door behind Sherlock's head and he could only imagine the disaster if someone walked in on him, but he didn't think it would happen. They knew that Sherlock and John needed their alone time.

Sherlock spread his legs, running a hand warmly up and down his thigh. John kept his eyes on Sherlock's face and Sherlock did the same. They didn't need to speak. They knew what the other was thinking. John wanted this to last forever, for the end to never come and for Sherlock never have to walk out of the door and away from him.

John felt Sherlock's fingers slip into the band of his underwear. He gasped at the sensation. "Kiss me," he mumbled, cupping the ridge of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock leant down to press his lips against his, while his fingers slid down to cup his dick. He gave it a teasing squeeze. John gasped into his mouth.

"Stop that."

Sherlock smirked, his face so close to John's that he could feel the vibration of his lips when he spoke. "Make me."

"Fighting words," John said narrowly.

Sherlock guided John's hips upwards and gently pulled his briefs down the bruised plains of his thighs to his knees. John bit his bottom lip. His cock ached for attention.

"Are you sure you're alright?" John asked, as Sherlock rested back on his knees, his own underwear around his thighs. John couldn't help taking a good look at Sherlock's long, pale dick, glistening at the tip and surrounded by a shock of dark pubic hair.

"Fine," Sherlock said, kneeling back over him, as though in defiance of his evident pain. "I intend to take you, John Watson. I won't be denied it. I need to remember this until the next time we meet."

"Don't say it like that," John said. He spread his legs either side of Sherlock and watched as Sherlock one-handedly tore open the condom. "You make it sound like a lifetime."

Sherlock knelt back to roll the condom onto himself. He knew John liked to watch; he always made a great show of putting it on, slowly and smoothly, his fingers stroking the underside of his shaft.

John wanted desperately to touch him, to touch all of him, but he was wary of hurting him. He looked up to Sherlock's face and found him already watching him. "It's alright," he said, stroking loose strands of John's hair back from his face. His fingers smelt salty and hot from touching himself. "You don't have to treat me like I'm breakable." He smiled.

John nodded. He touched Sherlock's chest. He rolled Sherlock's nipple under his fingertips. It almost immediately hardened. Sherlock breathed softly against him. He spread John's legs a little wider, until it was almost uncomfortable.

John could feel his hole was exposed. It felt cold and very tight. "It's going to hurt," he said breathlessly. Sherlock touched his cock and then cupped his balls underneath, very gently, but with enough pressure to make his eyes flutter back a little in his head.

"I'll be as gentle as I can," he said. His cock was leaking more than before, and John knew he was very, very aroused.

"You better not start fucking my brains out like some sort of animal. Not without my permission," he said narrowly. "I'll twist your nipple off."

"Dually noted," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John gripped the pillow behind his head hard when he felt one, and then two fingers slide inside of him. "Oh- fu-fuck-"

"You're really tight," Sherlock noted.

"Yeah- No shit, Sherlock-" John arched his back with a moan. "Stop poking around down there and get on with it."

"Bossy," Sherlock quipped, but did as he was told.

John felt very open and very stretched when Sherlock finally extracted his digits. And very sore. He held tightly onto Sherlock's arms when he felt Sherlock positioning himself against him.

He bit back a gasp as the tip of Sherlock's gloved erection pressed against his partly prepared, but gently throbbing entrance. Sherlock was looking at him with an intensity he hadn't seen in his eyes before. It was almost as though he was drinking him in, putting away memories of him for later, much needed pictures for lonely days.

Sherlock nodded briefly to him by way of warning and John closed his eyes furiously tight as he was entered. The pain was, for a moment, intense. Almost as bad as when he had lost his virginity, but it was easier to take because he knew it would soon lessen.

Sherlock gave a harsh moan as he pushed himself completely inside of John. "Jo-John-" he breathed.

John opened his eyes with a strangled groan, and held one clammy palm to Sherlock's face. It was warm under his skin. Sherlock wasn't moving against him, he was hunched over, breathing rapidly, though keeping his eyes firmly on John's. They were wide and bright, almost silver in the bedroom light.

"Ok?" Sherlock said, his voice taut from the pressure of being fully lodged inside of John and unable to move.

John nodded his head with difficulty. "O-ok."

Sherlock started to move, with not a small amount of relief John thought. He wrapped his hands around Sherlock's very slim torso, as Sherlock extracted himself from him and then pushed in again, with a small burst of speed.

"Ah!" John moaned, tilting his head back.

He had almost forgotten how tender and sore his body was, how the nurse had made him swear he and Sherlock would abstain from any "vigorous activity" for at least a month. He was pretty sure this was not what she had in mind. As far as he was concerned it therefore counted as an exception.

"You... alright...?" Sherlock panted, his face contorting with pleasure.

John could only nod his head.

He could hear his bed giving a series of low, growling creaks, though thankfully it wasn't slamming against the wall as he feared it might. He could only hope that the floorboards weren't making any suspicious sounds for the party in the living room below to wonder at.

"Fuck me...  _harder_ ," he hissed, bucking his hips up to meet Sherlock's.

Sherlock looked at him, but didn't argue. With a groan, he ground his himself harder and deeper into John.

"Yes!" John couldn't stop himself from crying out.

Sherlock didn't bother telling him to hush. His pale skin had become blotted with red across his cheeks. He was making the most obscene and exquisite expressions. His eyes fluttered and then closed and then opened again, his mouth twisted into what looked almost like grimaces of pain, or even smiles, he furrowed his brow furiously. John stopped noticing the bruises.

John felt something like a shot of pure pleasure to his stomach and the tip of his cock. "Oh!" He gripped the blankets. His neglected cock was straining and dribbling pre-come. He wrapped one of his hands unsteadily around it.

"Going to-" Sherlock said breathlessly from above him.

John nodded wordlessly. He could feel his own orgasm was close. He was clenching around Sherlock harder and tighter every time he thrust inside of him.

Sherlock hit his prostate again, and he cried out against his will. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes closed. John saw his climax overtake him before he was aware of his own. Sherlock's face was divine as he was overcome. He barely stifled a moan, and a cry of John's name that was very nearly a sob.

John's eyes rolled back in his head, and he came violently onto his own chest, gasping for air. Sherlock rode out his orgasm in slow, smooth waves.

John laid flat against the bed. He felt stretched and sore, but it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. Sherlock carefully pulled out of him and rolled onto his back next to him. They were both sticky with sweat, and smelt strongly of sex.

"Not bad for a last shag," Sherlock remarked.

"Shut up," John said, leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "It better not be the last shag, Sherlock. I will come to London and hunt you down. You know I'm not joking."

Sherlock slid his fingers through his and gave his hand a squeeze. "It won't be forever. It's only a few miles."

"A few hundred," John interjected.

"It's not forever," Sherlock said firmly. He sat up, his expression serious. "You have to believe that, John. We will be together."

John smiled. "I do believe you. I have to."

And he knew he would always believe in Sherlock, no matter what the circumstances.

\--

There was a taxi at the gate, its horn bleating impatiently. Five people soon emerged from John's modest terrace house on Portswood Road.

At the rear were John and Sherlock, walking slowly behind the rest. John took hold tightly of the sleeve of Sherlock's jumper and didn't let go. They stood side by side at the gate, watching the taxi driver struggle with each of Sherlock's bags into the boot, and trying to listen to all of Mycroft's polite, though absolute instructions at the same time.

Behind him John's mother had her arm around Harriet's waist. Harriet looked very tall next to her. She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile.

John turned back to stare at the taxi. The driver was getting back in the driver's seat, muttering to himself. Mycroft walked over to shake his mother's hand and thank her for her hospitality.

Sherlock's hand slipped into his almost without either of them noticing. They didn't look at each other. John didn't think he could stand it.

Then, Mycroft was getting into the front seat, and he knew it was time. They walked two steps, hands still clasped. No one spoke, and John felt grateful, grateful that they understood their need for them not to speak.

Sherlock turned to him at the door of the cab. Letting go of his hand, he touched his jaw.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice sounding broken. He didn't mean it too. He had intended to be strong to the very last.

Sherlock nodded and kissed him. In front of his brother, the cab driver, his mother and Harriet. In front of his sour-faced next-door neighbour and the cat from number 9 that was always pissing on their garden gate. In front of Portswood Road and whoever in the world happened to be looking, Sherlock kissed John.

They broke apart and Sherlock turned to get into the cab. There were no more words, no more promises or reassurances. There didn't have to be. John believed. He knew.

Sherlock would come back.

The End


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't absolutely necessary to read the epilogue. It doesn't add anything to the story. It's just for those who prefer their stories wrapped up in a neat, little bow.

_Epilogue_

John knew he had forgotten the milk. He didn't need anyone to tell him, because he had realised about two minutes after he had arrived at the flat. He had everything but the bleeding milk. He knew there'd be hell to pay if he didn't nip down to the shops later and get it, but he'd be buggered if he was going back now. He was tired.

"Hello!" he shouted, nudging the door open with his hip. "I'm back!"

He dropped the shopping in a somewhat unceremonious pile in the kitchen and walked through to the living room. His laptop was still on the coffee table, mercifully untouched. Something that couldn't be assured in John's experience.

He sat down with a satisfied grunt and pulled it onto his lap, skimming down the page. He frowned. "What the..." He scrolled up to the previous page. "What the- Hey!"

"What the hell are you screaming about?"

John glared at his roommate. His hair was a mess, and he was wearing a dressing gown, despite it being almost one in the afternoon. John could see quite plainly that there was nothing underneath.

"You've been doing it again," John said through gritted teeth. "Messing around with my bloody memoirs."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and fell heavily onto the sofa beside him. "Your memory is crap."

"It is not!" John insisted. "You keep sticking things in that didn't even  _happen_. And you don't even remember half the names of the people involved."

"Unimportant details," Sherlock said with a yawn, lying back in his seat.

"Cover yourself up, will you," John said, snatching his laptop away.

Sherlock smirked sideways at him. "Or what? You'll smack me one?"

He wiggled his toes in John's face.

"Right," John said, pushing the laptop onto the coffee smartly. He crawled over Sherlock, shoving a knee roughly between his legs.

Sherlock looked up at him with glittering eyes.

"This is  _my_  book," he said sternly. "My memoir. It's supposed to be about what I remember, not you. So if you're bored, go and find yourself some poor, dead sod to gloat over."

Sherlock's smirk widened. "I love it when you're domineering." He wrapped his bare legs around John's waist.

"You..." John rolled his eyes. "You're hopeless."

"Mmm," Sherlock said, pulling him down to kiss his cheek, his jaw and his chin. "And you're boring. I'm bored. Oh so very bored. Write your trite, little school thing later."

John tilted his head reluctantly as Sherlock's warm lips reached his neck. "Sherlock..."

"Don't "Sherlock" me," Sherlock said into his skin, sending a cascade of shivers and goosebumps down him. "Come on. Let's see if you can manage any of those moves from high school, you old man." His voice was low and vibrating with lust.

John sighed. "Fine. Fine, you win. One very,  _very_  quick shag." He looked at him fiercely. "And then I'm working."

Sherlock grinned. John knelt upright and hastily tore off his jumper and t-shirt.

"So eager," Sherlock quipped. "It's like you're seventeen again. All that nostalgia is rubbing off on you."

"Oh, shut up," John said, kissing him.

And for once, Sherlock did.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Intimacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/460682) by [naripolpetta (mofumanju)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mofumanju/pseuds/naripolpetta)
  * [St. Mary’s School for Girls (Adventure of Two Young Girls in Love)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420387) by [brokenlungs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlungs/pseuds/brokenlungs)
  * [The Year Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151355) by [claralaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/claralaurus/pseuds/claralaurus)




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